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THE HOME LIE 




HENRY ¥. LON(}FELLO>y= 



REMTXISCENCES 

OP 

MANY VISITS AT CAMBRIDGE AND NAHANT, 

DURING THE YEARS 1880, 1881 AND 1882. 



BLANCHE ROOSEVELT TUGKER-MACCHETTA. 



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NEW YORK: 

Copyright, 18S2. by 

G. IV, Carleton & Co., Publishers. 

LONDON : S. LOW, SON & CO. 

MDCCCI,\XX1I. 

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yo Ann Street, N. Y. N. Y. 



IDebicatiou. 



TO GEORGE I. SENEY, 

A TRUE FRIEND, AND WISE COUNSELOR, 

THIS, MY FIRST AVORK, 

IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED, 
IN WARM AND GRATEFUL REMEMBRANCE 




INTEODUCTIOK 



During the month of July, 1880, I had the 
pleasure of spending several days at JS^ahant, as the 
guest of Henry W. Longfellow, and at his suggestion, 
I kept the journal from which these pages have been 
taken. 

Honored with the poet's friendship, I could not 
but appreciate the benefit of passing much time 
in his society, and seeing him in the home circle, 
where the genuineness of his nature could best be 
understood. For nearly three years I had been in 
active correspondence with him. My friends ex- 
pressed so much curiosity regarding the home life of 
so great a man that the idea came to me to make use 

[11] 



12 Introductio7t. 

of my journal and publish a book of Reminiscences. 
Having thought long and seriously on the subject I 
prepared more than half of the present work, and on 
the twenty-eighth of last December, in response to 
the following letter, I went with my sister to Cam- 
bridge, where we spent the day with the poet : 

" CAMBErooE, Deceinher '2i7th, 1881. 
"Dear Pandora:* — I have just received your 
telegram and am so glad you are coming, and so sorry 
that I cannot come in to welcome you. Alas ! I am 
still confined to the house, and mostly to my room. 

" Please come and see me to-morrow forenoon at 
eleven, if possible ; not in the afternoon, as I have to 
sleep. 

" How delightful it will be to see you again. I 
wish I could give a better account of myself. 1 im- 
prove very, very slowly. 

" Yours faithfully, 

" H. W. Longfellow." 

Mr. Longfellow expressed himself as very much 
pleased with my idea and what I had done. He said 
we would call the work " Reminiscences of a Poet's 



* " Pandora " was the title with which the Poet usually 
addressed me. 



Introduction. 13 



Home Life." He corrected with his own hand many 
lines, and made many suggestions. I wrote them 
down in full. He reviewed and revised all that was 
written most thoroughly, and remarked on the chap- 
ter containing his personal description : " Why, that 
is my portrait ; flattered certainly, but it is me, and 
I will never have another taken better than that." 

He rather objected to the description of his visit 
to Queen Victoria, but finally withdrew his opposi- 
tion. It would have been a pity to overlook so 
salient a point in his character of an American poet. 
It was decided that I should bring him the manu- 
script (the last six chapters were only sketched out) 
in its entirety, when he would make necessary correc- 
tions, and revise it completely. 

His sudden demise hastened the appearance of 
this little work. My husband and myself dined 
with Mr. T. G. Appleton the evening of March 28th. 
I then read to him the entire work, receiving at the 
time many newer suggestions and several important 
facts from the poet's brother-in-law, which are here 
incorporated. 

My thanks are tendered to Mr. T. G. and Mr. 
Nathan Appleton for their kindly interest and sug- 
gestions, and to Miss Fannie A. Tucker. 



14 Introduction. 



The book pretends to claim no literary merit ; it 
is merely an humble and ajffectionate tribute, not 
alone to the great poet, but to the cherished friend. 

Blanche Roosevelt Macchetta. 

New York, Aiiril^ 1883. 



CONTENTS. 



Chapter I. — Cambridge. — The Home of the Poet, 
H. W. Longfellow. — Entrance to his House. — 
Longfellow follows the Custom of the Ancients. 
— Reception hy the Poet.^- Introduction to the 
famous Study. — The heauty of the House. — 
The Craigie Mansion., once Washington's Head- 
quarters. — Lady Washington'' s Room. — The 
Portraits. — Tintoretto and David. — A lie- 
marhable Fire-place.-. — A71 Old Clock on the 
Stairs. — Luncheon, and Longfellow'' s Remarhs 
on Jules Janin 19 

Chapter II. — A second Visit to Cambridge. — He- 
scription of the Poet. — Longfellow as he ajjpears 
at Seventy four 43 

Chapter III. — The Promenade on the Terrace. — 
Longfellow will call Things by their Right 

[151 



1 6 Contents. 

Names. — Living in a Yellow House. — 

Visitors, and his deception of them. — An Au- 
tograph for a Namesake. — His last Visit to 
England. — His Call on Her Majesty Queen 
Victoria. — The Difference in Poets. — Long- 
fellow a Poet of the People. — The Queen's 
Remark, " Why, even all my Servants read 
your Poems.'''' — The real Dante. — Sketch of the 
Ltalian Poet. — A rare Autograph Album . 48 

Chaptek IV. — Nahant. — The Poets Summer 
Home. — ILow he spends his Mornings. — Modest 
Interior of the Poefs House. — A well-hred^ Gen- 
tleman living in quiet Luxury. — His Habits 
and Correspondence. — His Love of Fun . 65 

Chapter Y. — A moi'ning Occupation. — The Pro- 
fessor an early Riser. — The Ceremony used hy 
the Family towards each other. — A Farnily 
Party at Tahle, and General Conversation on 
the Terrace. — The Poefs Letters. — His Hand- 
writing. — Accidental' Discovery of a New 
Author. — Unearthing of a Poet. — Ricbhish, 
and my Unfortunate Remark. — Description of 
the Poefs Laugh 80 

Chapter VI. — Longfellow Speaks of Poetical In- 
fluence. — The Works he never Reads. — Sketch 
and his Opinion of Alfred de Musset, tJie French 
Poet. — " A God-given Talent put to had Uses.'''' 
— Longfellow not Willing to lie awake at N\ght 



Contejits. 17 

to set a had Examjple to a Class of thirty the 
next Morning 95 

Chapter VII. — The Poeis Appreciation of Paro- 
dies. — A Household Word. — " I hnow the 
Lines.'''' — Dante in another Form. — An English 
Parody on Hiawatha 108 

Chapter VIII. — Longfellow visits Jules Janin, the 
French Critic. — The Lmpression made on his 
Mind hy his Mode of Living. — Li Doubt as 
to an old Acquaintance. — Byron and Swin- 
lurne 119 

Chapter IX. — Longfellow with his Orandchild. — 
Youth and Old Age. — Sketch of the Late Victor 
Fmmianuel, King of Ltaly. — The Poets Greet- 
ing to his Family 130 

Chapter X. — A Drive to Lynn. — Mr. Longfellow'' s 
Love of the Sea. — Where he Wrote his Poems 
"^ Secret of the Sea " and '* Pallingenesis.^'' — 
The Peal Story of Hyperion .... 142 

Chapter XI. — Longfellow'' s Love of Flowers. — The 
Pink Pond Lily. — A Poetic Sketch. — An 
Honest Opinion 155 

Chapter XII. — Longfellow in Conversation. — A 
Good Listener. — Characteristic Hahits. — The 
Golden Century. — The Glory of the Nine- 
teenth 165 



1 8 Co'iitcnts. 

CiiAPTKU XIII. — A Weddhig Annioersary. — The 
Real Way to made Fish Chowder. — Poem^ 
'' The Bells of Lynn'' IT-I 

Chapter XIV. — The Eoening at Nahant. — Long- 
fellow's Love of Music. — Fond of Rossini. 
— Recitation of a Favorite Poem hy the 
Poet 183 

Chapter XV. — Talk on, Poets. — Sketchy Victor 
Llugo. — LjOngfellow Wishes to Shake him hy the 
Lland 103 

Chapter XVI. — Yisit to Cambridge a Year later. 

— Christmas Dinner in the Craigie Mansion. — ■ 

Tales of a Wayside hin. — All Characters 

from Life. — Portrait of The Sicilian., Luigi 

Monti 210 

Chapter XVII.— J/y Lost Youth. — P'en L-^ortrait 
of G. W. Greene. — The LListorian and Longfel- 
low. — Friends of over Threescore Years. — 
The Study at Cambridge, in Ihe LamjpUght. 
— Mr. Longfclloio Speaks of Edgar Allan 
Foe 221 

Chapter XVIII. — Looking over my Journal. — My 
last visit to Cambridge. — The Poet III and 
Stiff ering. — Hoping for another May . .237 

Chapter XIX. — Ultima Thule. — The last Rest- 
ing place of the great Poet 245 




LONGFELLOW'S HOME LIFE. 



CHAPTER I. 

THE HOUSE AT CAMBRIDGE. 

"Once, ah ! once within these walls, 
One, whom memory oft recalls, 
The Father of his Country, dwelt." 

To A Child. 




Y Dear Madam : — I have arranged it all, 

and will call for yon to-morrow at 

eleven. Excuse my coming so early, 

but it is a long way to Cambridge, and 

luncheon is usually at one o'clock. The Poet says 

he will be charmed to see } ou. In haste. 

'' Votre devoue, 

*' Nathak Appleton"." 



Such is the substance of a little note that I am 
continually turning over and over in my hand. As 

[19] 



TJie House at Cambridge. 



1 read and re-read it I know that a great desire of 
luy life is on the eve of reahzation. I am going 
to Cambridge. Cambridge is the home of a poet, 
and that poet is Henry Wad[;\vorth Longfel- 
low. 

When I was in Paris, in the Spring of '79, I 
made the acqnaintance of Mr. Nathan Appleton, 
our distinguished compatriot, who had come to 
Europe as a delegate to the International Congress, 
called together by Count Ferdinand de Lesseps, 
regarding a maritime canal across the American 
isthmus. Mr. Appleton is a brother-in-law of 
Mr. Longfellow", and he had promised to present 
me to the poet if ever I should go to Boston. 1 
am here now, and this little note is the agreeable 
result. 

The hours passed slowly till the following morn- 
ing, and only as we drove through the well-kept 
carriage-way did I feel that my time of probation 
was ended. Ascending the old-fashioned steps, we 
found ourselves on the porch of the Craigie Mansion. 
"VVe walked towards the entrance, and to my amaze- 



TJie House at Cambridge. 2 1 

ment Mr. Applctoii did not ring, but turned the 
knob softly, saying, 

" Longfellow follows the custom of the ancients. 
His latch-string is ever out." Or, I interrupted, 

" The peasants of Normandy in the reign of the 
Henrys. '!N^either locks had they to their doors, 
nor bars to their windows ; but their dwellings were 
open as day and the hearts of the owners.' " 

We entered a large antechamber which re- 
minded me of the small chamber in the Louvre of 
Paris, dedicated to the Yenus of Milo, and, in fact, 
almost the first object my eye rested upon was a 
copy of that wondrous work. The walls were 
hnng with plaques and pictures, while copies and 
originals in ancient sculpture were artistically 
placed about. In one corner, on a high pedestal, 
was a beautiful head in white marble of the Roman 
hero Marcellus — a copy of the famous bust in the 
antique museum in Home ; it is so well done as to 
almost rival in beauty the great original. 

There were several doors to this apartment, and 
one at the farther end stood open. A maid came for- 



TJic House at Cambridge. 



Avard, and Mr. Appleton, recognizing lier with a 
smile, inquired if tiic poet were visible. She 
answered in the affirmative, and showed the way 
through a richlj-furnished hall to his study. As 
our advancing footsteps made themselves heard the 
door opened and Longfellow stood before us. 

With well-bred civility, he acknowledged Mr. 
A])pleton's introduction, and his first words were 
calculated to set me at my ease. The apartment in 
which we found ourselves was verv larsre, and a 
huge open fire-place occupied considerable space at 
the left of the entrance. The morning was chilly, 
and a soft fire of cannel coal intermingled with logs 
of hickory shot a cheerful glow up into the wide 
chimney. 

While the poet was engaged with Mr. Apj)leton, 
I looked around and examined the apartment at my 
fullest leisure. I lost no time in concluding that I 
was in the famous study of the poet, and what a 
study ! 

The room, about thirty feet square, seemed of 
more ample dimensions. There was a harmonious 



TJic House at Cambridge 23 

blending of furniture, walls, books, pictures and 
statuary. The prevailing tint a Vv'arm Autumn 
brown — a sj'inpatlietic golden that conies to the 
leaves in October, when, fanned by the western 
winds, tliey deepen in color as they catch the glow 
of a fading Summer's sun. 

The day was so misty v/ithout that it threw 
in bold relief the exquisite warmth and comfort 
w^itliin. A iire-light cast fitful gleams of brightness 
on the russet brown of the carpet, and dimly illu- 
mined even the furthermost ol^jects in the apart- 
ment. I was absolutely penetrated with the atmo- 
sphere of repose and poetry of this wondrous cham- 
ber. My lips moved involuntarily, and I spoke 
rather than thought the word, 

" SbnjpatiGar The poet's voice interrupted my 
re very. 

" I see that you are pleased with my study, and 
have divined the very name that my heart so long has 
given it. Besides being comfortable, there is one cap- 
ital reason why it should be called sympathetic. This 
was Washington's own private room ; and where my 



24 The House at Cambridge. 

writing-desk now stands, tliere stood liis table. 
These walls, lined with books, also shelved his lit- 
erary lore. In fact, I think the arrangement of the 
room is exactly the same as when in his time." 
I looked around and said, musingly : 



" Once, ah ! once within these walls, 
One, whom memory oft recalls, 
The Fatlier of liis Country, dwelt." 



Thrilled with the influence of the past, I almost 
expected to see the desk piled with maps and charts, 
and the paraphernalia of a General's budget. In- 
stead, on either side of a carved portfolio was a 
mass of letters; those on the left with faces 
downward were answered (so the poet explained), 
those on the right, turned upwards, awaited his con- 
venience for a response. A beautiful ink- stand 
attracted my attention. 

"It belonged to Coleridge," said Longfellow, 
simply. 

" And the quills ?" I asked, referring to a pack- . 
age lying beside it. 



The House at Cambridge. 25 

" BeloDg to ine," added the poet, with a cunning 
smile. 

" I see," said I, laughing lightly, " you think, 
with the Earl of Dudley, that it is beneath the 
dignity of a gentleman to write with anything but 
a quill. I was once guilty of answering an invita- 
tion in a way that called this comment down on my 
head. His lordship explained furthei", that in the 
best circles of England it is considered positively a 
breach of etiquette to send a letter written with a 
steel pen." 

It was impossible in looking around the room not 
to notice the many rare objects that adorned it. The 
bookcases were Parisian and magnificently carved ; 
all that is valuable in ancient and modern literature 
peeped out from behind the glass, and in one was a 
still rarer treasure — the original manuscript of all the 
poet's own works. On a beautiful table between the 
windows reposed an immense volume which the 
poet took up lovingly. It was a copy of the Lord's 
Prayer, printed in every known language ; a most val- 



26 The House at Cambridge. 

uable work and an exquisite testimonial of the book- 
binder's art. 

The walls were hung with perfect likenesses in 
crayon of Emerson, ^Nathaniel Hawthorne, Charles 
Sumner and Felton ; and near the door an excellent 
likeness of the poet himself, although taken many 
years ago. Opposite his desk was a bust of General 
Green's grandson, G. W. Green, capable historian 
and Longfellow's dear friend. Over the door nearest 
the window were two portraits, ancient, yellow and 
time- stained, but inestimable in value. One was 
George Washington, and the other, Martha, his wife. 
An orange-tree stood in one window ; in the other a 
high desk where the poet used often to w^ite stand- 
ing, and by the fireside was the already famous chil- 
di'en's chair. The center-table was carelessly laden 
with choice volumes. I picked up one and read 
" The Scarlet Letter." 

" What a wonderful book," I exclaimed. 

"Yes, in truth a wonderful book," responded 
Longfellow, "I have read it many times, and think it 
stands pre-eminent among works of American fiction. 



The House at Cambridge. 27 

Hawtliorne wtis my dear friend, yet I speak without 
prejudice." 

I liad thought that this room held all that was 
valuable in literature, but the professor laughingly 
opened a door to the right, disclosing a small room, 
absolutely filled with books, pamphlets and papers. 
Here are hidden some of his most valuable works ; 
among them some original Bodonis, which marked 
the first great era in the art of Italian printing. This 
is also the legitimate liomc of the copy of the Lord's 
Prayer which was on the table by accident that day. 

From the study we passed into Lady Washington's 
parlor, whicli now serves as a morning-room. An 
immense oil painting representing the children of Sir 
William Pepperill, the old colonial governor, the 
figm-es dressed in the fashion of his time, lent an 
added charm of quaintness to the apartment. The old- 
fashioned simplicity of the furniture in its stately 
repose seemed almost to bespeak the presence of the 
"First lad)^ in the Land " as she was then called, and 
even a quantity of modern bric-a-brac could not 
entirely dispel the idea. 



28 TJie House at Cambridge. 

We stojDped in an adjoining antechamber to 
admire two marvelous works of art — one a David, 
his own picture painted by himself, the other a Tin- 
toretto, the head of a Venetian soldier. To one 
familiar with tlie many originals in the galleries of 
Venice, it was easy to recognize in the present pic- 
ture one of the painter's master-pieces. Longfellow 
looked long and earncstl}'^ at both works, and pointed 
out with the eye of a connoisseur the salient points, 
the perfection of each as a work of art, yet withal 
the astonishing difference in the school of painting. 
Then ensued a discussion on the two artists and their 
works. 

Tintoretto seems to have shown, in very early 
youth, a decided talent for painting. He first com- 
menced decorating the w^alls of the house, and all the 
surrounding objects about the paternal workshop 
were covered with bold drawings of heads and faces. 
His good father, although only a poor dyer, deter- 
mined, at last, to give the lad the best education 
that his means would permit. Some say he was 
born in 1512, others in 1517, and one may as well 



The House at Cambridge. 29 



accejit tlie last statement as the first. He certainly 
was born about that time, and his real name was 
Robusti — Jacobo Eobusti, a solid Italian cognomen, 
and the one that decorated the gilded sign over his 
father's workshop in far-famed Venice — already 
the birth-place of many great men, not alone among 
whom was Tiziano, Morone and Bonifazio. To this 
list of artists we certainly may add "little Tin- 
toretto," as he was called, because of his father being 
a dyer. " Tintnra " is the Italian for " color," and 
" tintore " naturally is for that of a " colorer ; " 
hence " tintoretto " is the diminutive for " little 
dyer." He was so clever that his pictures were 
often painted without being drawn, although, when 
he reached man's estate, he showed his appreciation 
of the art of drawing by taking Michel Angelo for 
his guide, Tiziano, his master, figured side by side 
with the great sculptor as pre-eminent in the art of 
coloring; in fact, the motto over his door was "/Z 
disegno di Michel Angelo il colorito di Tiziano.^'' 
(" The drawing of Michel Angelo and the coloring of 
Tiziano.") It is said that his best pieces are " The 



30 The House at Cambridge. 

Passion of our Savior," and the "Miracle of St. 
Marc." He painted so fast and with such profusion 
that his may be claimed as the most prolific of all 
Italian pencils. His works were all good, if not 
great. He was especially happy in portraits, 
and here we find the great precepts learned of his 
master, Tiziano, carried out with extraordinary vigor 
and fidelity. Seeing only the large pictures he has 
done one might well consider him a wonder, but on 
examining those of less pretense, one sees the same 
strength of color and a perfection of design worthy 
of Michel Angelo himself. 

" This one," said the professor, looking straight 
at it, " merits more than a passing glance. See the 
deep, earnest eyes, delicate yet boldly traced line- 
aments and rich coloring. It seems impossible to 
realize that more than four centuries have elapsed 
since Tintoretto first put this face on canvas. It is 
distinct as if painted only a year ago, yet mellowed 
enough in tone by age to have watched with the 
night stars in Bethlehem when shepherds were 
awaiting the dawn." 



TJic House at Cambridge. 31 



" Well," said I, " I do not wonder that the son 
of the })Oor djer caused his rivals many a sleepless 
night. His influence to-day, after four hundred 
years, alternately exalts and drives to despair the 
most ambitious and talented of his followers ; yet 
with all his faults, the world would gladly give 
birth to another Tintoretto. It seems to me that 
when one has done so much that is great, history 
should kindly overlook the faults when they are in 
such minority." 

" Oh, you may well say with all his faults," 
said Longfellow, laughingly, " poor Tintoretto has 
received unstinted praise and unstinted blame from 
historians of every century. Still, all seem to agree 
that he was incapable of real study. He abused a 
natural talent by drawing upon it at the last mo- 
ment for work that another would have already 
prepared by faithful research and elaborate sketches. 
Strange to say, the more exorbitant the demand he 
made upon himself, and the more unreasonable, the 
more stupendous was the picture in an artistic 
sense. Perhaps, had he studied arduously, his 



32 TJie House at Ca7nbridge. 



works miglit all have been of equal excellence, 
and compatible with genius, which Macaulay de- 
fines as an ' infinite capacity for taking pains.' " 

" Or according to this," I interrupted, " Tinto- 
retto might have labored like a gallej-slave, and yet 
left to the world no more mementos than the few 
that made his fame and are scattered here and there 
Avith a rarity which accol'ds with their great excel- 
lence. Let us be content with little." 

Tintoretto died in 1588. Nature denied him 
lineal descendants, but bestowed upon him the 
greater gift of living himself forever. 

'• Now," said the poet, " will you look at ray 
David % The Tintoretto is wonderfully soft, but I 
must say I like the great character expressed in this 
face. David, you know, was a celebrated French 
painter of the last century, and while a man of great 
talent, there can be no comparison between himself 
and Tintoretto from an artistic standpoint. In the 
strength of character painting, however, they cer- 
tainly had points in common. Look at this head, 
for instance. A great number of his pictures are 



The House at Cambridge. 33 

in the gallery ut Y'^rsailles, and some famous ones 
in the collection of the Luxembourg, in Paris. One 
of his finest works, " La mort de la reine Elizaheth^'' 
in the last-named place, is universally admired. The 
virgin queen is pictured half-raised from the pillow, 
endeavoring to have speech with her attendants, 
when she is stricken by the great destroyer. The 
terror and agony depicted on tlie countenance are so 
natural as to be alarming ; the hard face of the 
queen, while retaining all of its usual characteristerics, 
wears also a new expression of humility that lessens 
the general repulsiveness and reflects wonderful 
credit on the able pencil of the painter. It is mar- 
velous how, even in imagination, he could catch so 
fleeting an expression and so faithfully reproduce 
it." 

" I remember well the picture always possessed a 
certain fascination for me," I answered, " and I think 
with you that David excels in portraits. As a color- 
ist, he is crude and imitative, and his drawing never 
put Michel Angelo to the blush. He was really a 

sensational painter, and made stirring battle-pieces 
2* 



34 The House at Cambridge. 

enough to satisfy the blood-thh'sty in every land. 
The galleries in Versailles are filled with them. 
All of his works, however, have the quality of being 
intensely realistic. One might say that he has used 
miles of canvas, and his attempts were usually 
grandiose or very modest. There seemed little half- 
way work about him. lie was a man of indefati- 
gable energy, and while no one ever called him a 
genius, he will always be classed among the dis- 
tinguished painters who have done great honor to 
France." 

Leaving the antechamber we came to another 
room, corresponding in size to those previously seen. 
A substantial huffet in beautifully-carved wood sug- 
gested the nature of the apartment. Over it hung 
the portrait of Mr. T. G. Appleton, the poet's 
brother-in-law, taken in the Byronian style, at about 
the ago of five-and-twenty. It was a fine face, and 
must have been an exceedingly good likeness. 

Over the mantelpiece was a Roman picture 
by Guerra, in the style of the Mantegna frescoes. 
It was bought in the Piazzi di Spagna, in Rome, 



TJie House at Cambridge. 35 

bj Mr, Longfellow, and represents " A Cardinal and 
his suite on the Piucio." His Holiness is just stop- 
ping to admire the wonderful fountain so well 
known to all visitors to the Eternal City. 

On one side of the room hung a portrait of three 
children, painted for the father, by Buchanan Read. 
All the world is familiar, if not with the painting, at 
least with its copies. A look of infinite tenderness 
came into the poet's face as we drew near to examine 
the picture, and he said, softly : 

" Yes, those are ray three little girls." 

Mr. Appleton interrupted : 

" ' Grave Alice, laughing Allegra, 
And Edith, with golden hair.' 

The one to the left is Edith, Mrs. Dana, the one to 
the right is the eldest daughter, Alice, and in the 
center is our little Annie." 

While we were yet speaking Miss Annie came 
in. She greeted her father affectionately, and in a 
sweetly-modulated voice bade me welcome. The 
innate refinement of her manner was shown in the 



36 The House at Cambridge. 

ease with wliicli she joined us. The poet then led 
the way to the state parlor or drawing-room. 

This room served formerly as a sort of council - 
chamber for Washington and his staff. It was 
double the size of any chamber I had yet seen, re- 
minding me, in its stateliness and beauty, of the East 
Room of the White House. Two ancient fluted pil- 
lars support the ceiling and form a natural panel in 
the solid wall on one side. At one end two windows 
opened on a Ei-ench terrace, while directly facing the 
other was the glory of the apartment, a mamn.oth 
fire-place. Although not so antique, it has a striking 
resemblance to the one in the house of William the 
Conqueror at Dives, in Normandy. The old pile, at 
present, is used as a tavern, but in one room the 
grand old fire-place still remains in perfect preserva- 
tion. We can readily imagine how Guillaume and 
his bride, Mathilde of Flanders, sat together, as lovers 
might, before their own hearth, and in remembrance 
of the hour, scratched, in a stone in the chimney, the 
letters G. and M., a souvenir that centuries has not 
effaced. 



The House at Cambridge. 37 

Dives is not generally known to tourists, altliongli 
it is not far from Pari3. It would be insignificant, 
were it not for a certain Norman prettiness in 
tlie old houses. 

" Thatched were the roofs, with dormer windows 
and gables projecting." 

The gardens are quaint, and the actual existence 
of the home dwelt in by the Conqueror makes the 
spot interesting. 

Pointing to the tire-place before u^ the poet said, 
" This chimney is old, but the one up-stairs bears a 
plaque dated 1759." 

We continued our examination of the apartment, 
but it would be impossible to describe all the costly 
and rare articles of ve]-tu that adorned it. To the 
left of the fire-place stood a large Japanese folding 
screen, which partially hid a wall of books. I say 
" wall," as the cases seemed literally built in the side 
of the house. Opposite the columns was another 
large window, looking out on a side terrace, and 
commanding a beautiful view of the spacious grounds 
belonging to the place. In the window was a small 



38 The House at Cambridge. 

writing-desk, furnished with other quills, trinkets 
ancient and modern, and a substantially well-filled 
portfolio. I took up a curious paper knife, which 
proved to be a dagger bearing the arms of Francis I., 
with the inscription " Tout est perdu fors Vhon- 
neur.''^ 

Seated beside the poet, I followed with eager 
interest his gracious observations ; I think everything 
in the room received an affectionate tribute, and it 
was easy to see that every souvenir was held in con- 
stant remembrance by him. 

The hands of many givers are peacefully folded to 
rest, while others still do their daily work in this busy 
life of ours. 

A portrait of the Abbe Listz in his ecclesiastic 
gown, holding in his hand a flaring taper, was a strik- 
ing likeness of the world-renowned pianist. 

Admiring and discussing the time passed swiftly 
until we were summoned to luncheon. A cozy party 
sat down at table, and the poet made the tea. 
Honored with a place at his right, I was near enough 
to enjoy every word that fell from his lips. His con- 



The House at Cambridge. 39 

versation, spiced with admirable aud appropriate wit, 
often sent the laugli around the festive board. He 
ate sparingly, yet with such intention, that no one 
could feel less frugal than he, verifying the differ- 
ence between " living to eat, and — eating to live." 

He enjoyed his tea, and I remarked on its flavor 
and color ; a rich golden brown, it distilled an aroma 
particularly appetizing. 

" I am glad you like it," said the poet heartily, 
" my son Charles brought it all the way from China." 

Amongst other dishes, '''•homard d la gelee,^^ 
excited the following remark from our host : 

" I never see this dish without thinking of Jules 
Janin ; in his remarks on fish, he called the lobster 
' le cardinal de la mer ' (the cardinal of the sea) ; and 
we all know," with a deliciously sly laugh and a 
mirth-enlivened countenance, " that the lobster is not 
red until it has been boiled." 

Adjoining to the drawing-room we lingered over 
our coffee, the conversation becoming ever more 
animated and brilliant until daylight gradually faded. 
Still under the charm of the professor's manner, a 



40 The House at Cambridge. 

realizing sense of etiquette forced me to think of 
leaving. I arose hastily, pleading as an excuse for 
our long visit, that the poet himself had beguiled the 
hours away. 

" It is a long distance to come," he said amiably, 
" and I thought this morning that it would be a dull 
day ; but your visit has dispelled the clouds. Nathan," 
turning to Mr. Appleton, " you must persuade Madam 
to (5ome again ; you know Hes amis de mes amis sont 
mes amis! (The friends of my friends are my 
friends.)" 

We retraversed the long hall and found ourselves 
in the front corridor. In turning to take a last look 
my eye rested on a wondrous time-piece, greatly 
resembling the one immortal in the poem, " The old 
clock on the stairs." 

A broad staircase, with two landings, leads to the 
upper chambers. From the ceiling, resting on the 
first, stands this ancient time-piece. It is a magnifi- 
cently carved Dutch clock with chimes, and is alto- 
gether a wonderful piece of mechanism. The long 
pendulum moved with a stately precision, and the tick, 



The House at Cambridge. 41 

tick, tick, was in agreeable and continuous harmony. 
The but stop ! Who would dare attempt a de- 
scription of a clock with the poet's own loving por- 
trayal of one before us. 



" Half-way up the stair it stands, 
It points and beacons with its hands 
From its case of massive oak, 
Like a monk, wlio, under his cloak, 
Crosses himself, and sighs, alas! 
With sorrowful voice to all who pass,— 

' Forever never ! 

Never forever I' " 



With these words ringing in my ears, I turned to 
the poet and said, 

" So this inspired the poem we all know so well." 

" No," said Mr. Longfellow, hastily, " that is the 
general idea, but it is erroneous. The real ' old clock 
on the stairs ' is in possession of my brother, Mr. T. 
G. Appleton. When I wrote about it, it was in the 
old Plunkett-Gold mansion, where we resided when 
in Pittsfield, Massachusetts." 

"Yes, I remember," I said, "these lines ex- 
plain — 



42 Tlie House at Cambridge. 

' Somewliat back from the village street 
Stands the old-fashioned country-seat; 
Across its antique portico 
Tall poplar trees their shadows throw; 
And from its station in the hall 
An ancient time-piece says to all, — 

Forever never ! 

Never forever !' 

" That description also applies to this house ; it 
stands somewhat back from the village street, and 
this clock is stationed half-way up the stairs." 

" That probably gave rise to the mistake, but I 
will show you the real clock the next time you come 
to my brother's," said Mr. Appleton. 

We then made our adieux 



CHAPTER 11. 

PERSONAL DESCRIPTION OF THE POET. 

*' Stalworth and stately in form was the man of seventy 
winters; 
Hearty and haic was be, an oak, that is covered with 

snowflakes; 
White as the snow were his locks, and his cheeks as 
brown as the oak leaves.'' 

Evangeline, Part I, 

BLINKING over the events of the day in 
the quietude of my chamber, tlie recol- 
lection was so vivid, that I fancied my- 
self still in the presence of the poet. 
Longfellow must, in youth, have been what the 
world calls a handsome man. His was a beauty of 
color rather than classic regularity of feature. He 
had long, light curling hair, which fell upon his 

shoulders in tangled and graceful confusion. His 

[43] 




44 Personal Description of the Poet. 

eyes were cerulean blue, and liis face glowed with 
animation ; the flesh tint being conspicuously bright 
and beautiful. 

He was born February 27th, 1807, and since 
then the years of nearly three-quarters of a century 
have swept onward in their unending course. The 
slender lad grew to sensitive youth, living more 
within himself than with the outer world, and un- 
doubtedly this extraordinary mental introspection 
did much to characterize his personal appearance. I 
could see in the exact pictures of him, taken at 
twenty, forty, and the later years of his life, the 
same unvarying, lineal features. His face, filled 
with rugged lines, presents a contour of great firm- 
ness and intelligence. The nose is Roman rather 
than Greek, with the very slightest aquihne ten- 
dency. His eyes are clear, straightforward, almost 
proud, yet reassuring, rather deeply set, and shaded 
by heavy, oveihanging brows. In moments of lofty 
and inspired speech they liave an eagle look, and 
the orbs deepen and flash. Like the great bird of 
prey, they seem to soar off into endless space, grasp- 



Personal Description of the Poet. 45 

iug ill the talons of the mental vision, things unat- 
tainable to less ambitious flight. With his moods 
they vary, and wlien calm, nothing could exceed the 
quietness of their expression. If sad, an infinite 
tenderness reposes in their depths, and if merry, 
they sparkle and bubble over with fun. In fact, 
before the poet speaks, these traitorous eyes have 
already betrayed his humor. I must not forget the 
greatest of all expressions — humility. To one whose 
soul and mind are given to divine thought, 'tis in 
the eye that this sentiment finds its natural outcome. 
And the world knows that Longfellow's faith is the 
crowning gem in a diadem of virtues. His face is 
not a mask but an open book — a positive index to 
his character. His forehead is high, prominent, and 
square at the temples ; numberless fine lines are 
ingrained in its surface, and on either side, a 
rilender, serpentine vein starts from the eyes, and 
mounting upwards loses itself beneath a mass of 
silvery white hair. I should scarcely call them the 
work of time, but rather the marks of an over- 
active intelligence, and they may have appeared to 



46 Personal Description of the Poet. 

others at thirty as plainly as they do to me to-day. 
The cheek-bones are high, and near the jaw the 
cheeks are slightly sunken. The mouth is the most 
sensitive feature in the face. Its character is mobile, 
even yielding, absolutely belying the outspoken 
firmness of the other features. The lips are rather 
full, sharply outlined, and faintly tinged with color ; 
they close softly, and are sometimes tremulous with 
emotional speech. Longfellow might be coaxed but 
never driven. The whole of the face glows with a 
beautiful carnation more suggestive of youth than 
old age. The lower part is completely hidden by 
a wavy beard of snowy whiteness, which also half 
conceals the slender throat. The hair, mingling with 
this, sets the rosy face in an aureole of snow. The 
chest is broad, not deep. With a supple and graceful 
carriage, he is straight as an arrow, and has a nature 
of extraordinary vigor. 

The charm of a well-bred manner asserts itself 
over every other personal attribute. Were Long- 
fellow less Longfellow — were he less characteristic 
of a poet than a peasant, his courteous affability and 



Personal Description of the Poet. 47 

rare grace of manner would still far ontsliine many 
Avlio have only this dependence for their success in 
life. His disposition is kindliness and sweetness 
itself, sympathetic, and utterly void of the slightest 
touch of vanity. 

Perhaps I have drawn on my imagination, still, I 
think not. The first lines of Hyperion come into 
ray mind — Hyperion, the greatest poem in modern 
prose : 

" In John Lyly's ' Endymion,' Sir Topas is made 
to say : ' Dost thou know what a poet is ? Why, 
fool, a poet is as much as one should say — a poet !' 
And thou, reader, dost thou know what a hero is ? 
Why, a hero is as much as one should say — a hero !" 

According to this, any further description would 
be ambiguous. Longfellow is a poet, and — my hero. 



CHAPTER III. 

A VISIT TO QUEEN VICTORIA. 

*' Not of the howling dervishes of song, 
Who craze the brain with tiieir delirious dance, 
Art thou, oh, sweet liistoriaii of the heart. 
Therefore to t!iee the laurel leaves belong, 
To thee our love and our allegiance, 
For thy allegiance to the poet's art." 

Wapentake.— To Alfked Tennysok. 

" Thy sacred song is like the trump of doom, 
Yet in thy heart what human sympathies, 
As up the convent walls, in golden streaks, 
The ascending sunbeams mark the day's decrease; 
And, as he asks what there the stranger seeks, 
Thy voice along the cloister whispers ' Peace.' " 

To Dante. 

T an early date, I availed myself of Mr. 
Longfellow's invitation to visit Kim again. 
As I drew near the house my eyes were 
gladdened with a sight of the poet. He 
was slowly pacing up and down the long terrace. 

r.48] 




A Visit to Queen Victoria. 49 

Enveloped in an old-fashioned mantle, one end of 
wliicli was thrown carelessly over his shoulder, with 
an Alpine liat of soft brown felt, he looked a very 
handsome man, and the living embodiment of one 
of Sir Walter Scott's cavaliers. 

Apparently he was better than when I last saw 
liim. The fresh spring air and bright sunshine lent 
a glow to his cheek and an unusual brightness to his 
eye. He greeted me cordially. As he was taking 
his usual morning exercise, I begged not to inter- 
rupt, and together we continued the promenade up 
and down the old elm-shaded avenue, and back again 
to the front piazza. For the first time I noticed the 
house and its situation. 

It stands on the road to Mount Auburn, about 
half a mile from Harvard Colltige, and commands a 
perfect view of the Charles Kiver, making a silver S 
iu the meadow. It is quiet, unostentatious, and 
— yellow. 

In speaking of it, Mr. Appleton suggested that I 
might at least dignify it with the name of "ecTW," 
whereat the poet said gravely. 



5o A Visit to Queen Victoria. 

" Go on, I don't mind what you call it, only it is 
yellow, and I like things to have their proper 
names." 

Thus, lightly conversing, we went within doors. 

Scarcely were we seated when the visitors' bell 
announced callers. This time I was a looker-on, and 
watched the poet's reception of his guests with in- 
finite interest. 

In a general conversation, an unerring instinct 
guided his questions and replies. He is so quick a 
reader of character, that not one word fell on an un- 
appreciative person. Betrayed into some warmth of 
feeling at a casual remark, he commenced what 
would have been a glowing description of something 
he had seen, but, glancing a second time at his visitor, 
he quietly dropped the thread of his remarks. He 
knows instantaneously by the questions put to him, 
the mental calibre of each and every interlocutor. 

Of course, as many epistolary tramps visit him out 
of curiosity, as well-intentioned litterateurs who wor- 
ship at the shrine of poetic art. It was delicious to 
see him quietly put down the former without their 



A Visit to Queen Victoria. 51 

being aware of it, and to remark \vith what astute- 
ness he divined the tastes of the latter mentioned. 
Evidently tlie old adage of casting pearls before 
swine is not unknown to him. 

A bright little lad was shown into the room. He 
was very young, perhaps seven years of age, and held 
in his hand a newly-bound volume. His manner 
suggested foreign breeding, as he bowed with marion- 
nette-like gravity to every one present, and there 
stood still as if at a loss how to proceed. 

Longfellow looked up smilingly ; his love of chil- 
dren was evident in the mildness of his speech. 
V 

" Good morning, my lad," said he. "Did you 

wish to see me V 

The boy said hesitatingly, " Professor Longfel- 
low?" 

" Yes," responded the poet kindly, " what is it ? 
Come hither." 

" This is my birthday," he said, " and I have come 
to beg you to put your autograph in my new album. 
Mother just gave it to me, and she said she thought 
I might ask you." 



52 A Visit to Queen Victoria. 

'"'What is your name V asked the poet. 

He looked up sliylj. '' I am named for yon," lie 
said simply, "and my father works in the college." 

The poet was touched, and the shadows in his 
face deepened into tender thoughtfulness. He took 
the book, and after a moment inscribed the words, 
" To my little namesake. In remembrance of 
Henry W. "Longfellow." He then drew the lad 
towards him, affectionately patted his head, and 
kissed his cheek in sign of adieu, at the same time 
sending his thanks to the mother for her kind 
rcn)embrance. The boy went proudly out with his 
book under his arm, and this circumstance hastened 
the departure of the other guests. 

Some new reviews and magazines being on the 
table, Longfellow turned to Mr. Appleton, and 
selecting one from amongst them, showed it to him. 
It was an English publication, and contained a criti- 
cism on himself and his works. In it the author 
called Longfellow a " poet of the people." 

I had thought him above caring what a news- 
paper said about him, still his annoyance was visible 



A Visit to Queen Victoria. 53 

in tlic forced indifference of liis tone while reading 
it, and a sliort langli which now and then half-escaped 
him. The words " poet of the j)eople " evidently 
amused him. and in a careless, lialf-indiiferent way 
he asked Mr. Appleton's explanation of them. Mr. 
Appleton hesitated, but I felt the way out of it. 

The English critic, \s\\\\ natural pride, in refer- 
ring to Tennyson as the "poet of the educated 
masses," and to Longfellow as the "poet of the 
people " unconsciously paid the highest compliment 
to the latter. With this thought in my mind, I ven- 
tured to say, with I'easonable assurance : 

" The truly inspired address all the world when 
they speak to the heart. Ilienzi, the last of the 
Roman tribunes, was not only a great man, but a 
poet of the people, and he said ' Yox ^opuli, vox 
DeV Blind Homer did not improvise for kings and 
queens, yet the Iliad and Odyssey stand to-day. 
Dante's Divine Comedy is addressed to the people ; 
Tasso and the great Ariosto were the people's poets, 
altliough the former was so much in love with 
Leonora as to ardently desire alliance with a duke's 



54 -^ Visit to Queen Victoria. 

sister; and in our own time Yictor Hugo exiled 
himself to be able to write for them." 

The urbanity of our poet was quite restored ; he 
looked up with an entirely changed expression, and 
said, lightly : 

' ' Speaking of all those European poets reminds 
me of my last visit to England. Shall I tell you 
about it ? "Would you care to hear ?" 

"Would we care to hear I I should thinh we 
would. 

We drew oui* chairs side by side, and Longfellow 
began : 

"When I last went to England I was pleased 
and honored to receive an invitation from the queen 
to pay a visit to Windsor Castle. A royal invitation 
is a command, and being in Her Majesty's domin- 
ions, I obeyed. Windsor is but a short distance by 
rail from London. The Thursday following my 
arrival I presented myself at the palace. Aly name 
being announced, the late Lady Augusta Stanley 
came forward and received me with considerable 
ceremony. Passing through numerous apartments 



A Visit to Queen Victoria. 55 

of great richness and historic beauty, I was finally 
left in an oval gallery of still tnore striking magnifi- 
cence. She left me, saying that she would announce 
my visit to Pier Majesty. 

" In an incredibly short space of time Lady Stan- 
ley returned, and said that her royal mistress would 
be graciously pleased to receive me. I was then con- 
ducted forth from the room, and we passed through 
several long corridors. To my amazement doors 
were opened and shut, numberless heads peeped out, 
surreptitiously drew back, and mysterious whisper- 
ings seemed to fill the royal apartment with indefi- 
nable murmurings. This caused me wonderment, 
and no slight discomfort. I was directly ushered 
into the Throne Room. An imposing lady in black, 
with flowing drapery, came quickly forward to 
greet me. It was Her Majesty, Queen Victoria. 
She extended her hand, and I offered to take it." 

" What !" I interrupted, " did you not bend and 
offer to kiss it ?" 

" No," said he, timidly, " I was not then familiar 
or acquainted with coui't etiquette, as I am now. 



56 A Visit to Qiiccn Victuria. 



She offered me her hand evidently to shake, and I 
shook it." 

" W]iy," said I, " she is the most inexorably' 
exigeante of all sovereigns. Yon must have horri- 
fied her." 

"I presnme I did," said he simply. "Now I 
think of it, she was disconcerted, I snppose for that 
reason, but she rallied gracionsly, and asked me 
about America and myself. She explained, 

" ' We speak of America first, because you are 
America's poet. Tennyson is ours.' 

" ' Tennyson is the world's poet. Madam,' said I, 
bowing gravely. She smiled in gratified acquies- 
cence and continued, 

" ' You arc very generous.' 

Her Majesty was then pleased to converse on 
general topics, but persistently got back to the sub- 
ject of myself. I felt slie was piqued about some- 
thing at first, and her last words were: 

" ' We shall not forget you,' adding, with a laugh, 
' wh}-, even all my servants read your poems !' " 

The poet then glanced up, and with an almost 



A Visit to Quec}i Victoria. 57 

comical expression, and, as after reading the criti- 
cism, ho said, 

" What do yon think she intended by it ? I 
was nonphissed, and to-da}^, although many years 
have passed, I am undecided as to what Her Majes- 
ty's real meaning was." 

" Well, dear master," said I, " judging from 
Her Majesty's appreciation of the truly beautiful 
in art and nature, I think her words were meant to 
convey a decided compliment. It was hard for her 
to acknowledge that the poems of a foreigner were 
household words for even the lowest of her sub- 
jects, when her own Poet Laureate does not always 
succeed in making himself understood by the masses 
for whom he writes." " 

The poet looked up and said : 

" Speaking of poets, have you seen my j^icture 
of Dante? It was supposed, after his death, that a 
portrait of him existed in tlie Bargello Palace, in 
Florence. All efforts to discover it had been futile, 
when in tearing down the fresco in one of the 
apartments, the head was discovered, bnt alas! not 
3* 



58 A Visit to Queen Victoria. 



in a perfect stcate. The cheek under the left eye 
was irremediably scarred. Happily, I possess a cor- 
rect drawing of the original." 

We then went to examine it. I was surprised 
at the sweetness and extreme delicateness of the 
features. 

" The pictures of the jDresent day," said Longfel- 
low, " arc all talcen fi'om another view of the face, 
representing a much older man with matured features 
and sharply elongated countenance. The head is 
covered with a monk's cowl ; a part of the shoul- 
ders are discovered, and in his hand he carries an 
ascetic flower. There is a boj'ish expression about 
the lips of the Bargello picture, which lends a 
charm not seen in those of a later date, and even 
the nose is without the accustomed sharpness. 

"Richard Henry Wild, of (xeorgia, the author of 
the charming lines on the Tampa rose, 

" My life is like the rose that blooms, &c.," 

when in Florence, became convinced that there must 
be under the whitewash of the Bargello Palace, a 



A Visit to Queen Victoria. 59 

portrait of Dante. He induced Mr. Kirkup, an 
English artist of considerable influence in Florence, 
to persuade the government to allow him to make a 
search for the picture. The room was explored 
nearly through its entire length, when their faith 
was rewarded by discovering the now well-known 
fresco of the youthful Dante. The great interest of 
the ]iead is in the fact that it expresses the sweet 
boyish face of the poet, as yet unfurrowed by care or 
torn hy the terrible conflicts of his later life. One is 
all youthful hope and trust, and the other bitter, 
almost saturnine, with life-long warfare. To use Mr. 
Longfellow's own words, 

" Such a fate as this was Dante's, 
By defeat and exile maddened." 

Dante was born in Florence, Italy, in the year 
1265, in the thirteenth century, or, as it is called 
nowadays the '■Hre cento'''' — famous in Italian lore as 
the century most productive of the great lights of 
her literature. It is asserted by Ugolini, a Floren- 
tine, that Dante's father was a certain Aldighiero di 



6o A Visit to QiLccn Victoria. 



Bellincionc, and that the poet was bom outside the 
city gates in a honse of poor aspect, and of very hum- 
ble dimensions. The real truth is, that no one ever 
knew positively who his father was. There have 
been many conjectures, many statements, but one 
and all are alike inaccurate. Dante grew to youth 
with many children about Florence, and had a very 
good tutor in the person of a certain Brunetto Latini. 
At an early age he was studious, gentle, and chival- 
rous He went into the army at twenty-four, and 
fought for his country at Campaldino, a brave soldier 
and a true patriot ; but in 1300, under Charles de 
Valois, he was suspected of siding with the enemy, 
and with a faithful few was exiled. Shortly from 
Gorgonza, where they had joined their forces, they 
attacked Florence, but with defeat the only result. 
Dante went to Verona and begged aid of the Scaligeri, 
a noble house who flourished in that century, and 
whose palaces and monuments to-day are among the 
ancient glories of Verona — but from their refusal he 
lost heart momentarily. Dante was a man of won- 
drous courage and patience, and he tried in every 



A Visit to Queen Vietoria. 6i 



way, even through the medium of Pope Leon III., to 
raise liis country to a harmonious and beautiful state, 
but he was only laughed at. 

He was married to Gemma di Donati and had 
seven children, but the love of his life was Beatrice 
Portinari, and this affection, most beautiful in the 
annals of platonic regard, colored his whole existence, 
and is the most prominent figure in the part of his 
poem called " 11 Paradiso." Dante wrote in verse 
and in prose in Italian, called the Vulgar tongue, and 
in Latin. His great poem is divided into three parts, 
and is called " la Divina Commedia " (the Divine 
Comedy). The first part is " 1' Inferno" (the Lower 
Regions). The second is " II Purgatorio " (Purgatory), 
and the third is " II Paradiso " (Paradise). Although 
living at a time when everything was corrupt, Dante 
had a due regard for decency, and was unflagging in 
his efforts to uphold virtue, and condemn vice. He 
was in reality the creator of the pure Italian lan- 
guage, and to-day even Italians need almost a special 
education to be able to understand his exquisite met- 
aphors, grand similes, and marvelous richness and 



62 A Visit to Queen Victoria. 

redundancy of speech. His life was begun in liberty, 
it finished in exile, but he has given to the world a 
poem that can never die ; and the greater the 
scholar to-day, the more profound is his reverence and 
admiration for Danet, No one will ever again write 
a " Divina Commedia." 

Longfellow, who imderstands, in an eminent 
degree, translation as an art, yet had a deeper insight 
into the hearts of authors. Ho interpreted by intni- 
tion and poetic sentiment, not by the mere medium 
of vnlgar verse. It is impossible to do the great 
Italian poet justice in a foreign tongue, but of all 
pretenders the sweetest rhythm has followed Long- 
fellow's lines, and the most comprehensive descrip- 
tion of Dante's meaning is embodied in some of our 
own poet's words. He worshiped him, and knew 
his songs by heart. Dante's three books of " The 
Inferno," "Purgatorio," and "Paradiso" have fur- 
nished thought and material for writing to hundreds 
of poets during six centuries. Dante died in Ra- 
venna the fourteenth of September, 1321, thus end- 
ing a life which has been of greatest use to the 



A Visit to Queen Victoria. 63 

world. Although in itself unequal, disappointing 
and uiisguidedj it was not, as he expressed it, a 
failure. 

Before leaving, a delightful half hour was spent 
with the autograph album. There were letters of 
George Washington, pages from Carlisle, Emerson, 
Hawthoi-ne, Chas. Sumner, Dean Stanley, Agassiz, 
Alfred Tennyson, Charles Dickens, Oliver Wendell 
Holmes, Bayard Taylor, Rossini, Jenny Lind, Nils- 
son, and a host of others. Tliey had been cared for 
by the poet's own hands, and were carefully and 
neatly pasted in a beautiful book. 

Longfellow looked it over with me, and showed 
almost as much cnriosity in it as I did. He 
looked lovingly at the well-known pages, and stopped 
here and there to comment on the person, or the 
character of their calligraphy. 

I never before had seen so wonderful a collection 
of autographs and autograph letters, and promised 
myself the pleasure of going through it again at no 
distant daj'. The professor closed the book with an 
affectionate smile, and said : 



64 A Visit to Queen Victoria. 

" Yon must look at it quite carefully the next time. 
We will go over it together, and I will explain all in 
it that you do not understand. Some of the letters 
are very curious, some piquant, and many quite 
beautiful. Others, as you see, arc merely invitations 
and notes. I must confess to the general weakness, 
if weakness it be. I love to look at autographs, and 
this book is one of my treasures." 



CHAPTER IV. 

LONGFKLLOW'S CHARACTER. 



*' Live I, so live I, 
To my Lord iicartily, 
To my Prince faitlifully, 
To my neighbor honestly, 
Die I, so die L" 

Law of Life. 

"Intelligence and courtesy not always are combined ; 
Often in u wooden house a golden room we find." 

Akt and Tact. 

"I ask myself, is tliis a dream ? 
Will it all vanish into air ? 
Ls there a land of sucli supreme 
And perfect beauty anywhere ?" 

Cadenabbia, Lake op Como. 

R. LONGFELLOW lias been twice married ; 
liis first wife was the beautiful Miss Potter, 
of Maine. She died in Rotterdam after 
five years of wedded life and unalloyed 
happiness. Some years later Mr. Longfellow espoused 

Miss Fanny Appleton, of Boston, a lady of rare per- 

[G5J 




66 Lons'fcilozvs Character. 



sonal beauty, splendid family, and of a character 
eminently suited to the student and poet husband. 
Mr. Longfellow has a happy home, and five children, 
two sons and three daugliters, the fruit of this second 
union. They are now grown up and live at home with 
their father, or if not all in the house, at least not far 
away. Charles Longfellow, the eldest son, is a 
famous yachtsman, and in consequence has passed 
many years abroad and cruising in foreign waters. 
Mr. Ernest, the second son, is a well-known artist of 
great talent and fine tuition in his school of painting. 
He is married, and lives in Cambridge, directly in 
front of the Craigie mansion. The beautiful trio 
portrait of three little girls by Buchanan Read, rep- 
resents the poet's daughters. The picture is too well 
known to need description, but the ladies all bear 
the same look that they had in youth, and are 
women of rare sweetness and refinement of character. 
Miss Alice Longfellow, the eldest, and Miss Annie 
live at home, while Miss Edith, the second daughter, 
is now Mrs. Dana, the wife of Richard Dana, Jr., the 
son of the well-known poet. 



Longfelloiu s Character. 6y 

\ liOngfellow lives at Cambridge tlie year round, 
with the exception of tlie summer months. These are 
usually passed at Nahant, a channiiig sea-side resort, 
just nortlieast of Boston, and directly facing Lynn. 
It is almost a neck of land, and is so retired a spot 
that not all the world knows of its existence. 

Honored with an invitation to visit the poet and 
his brother-in-law, Mr. Appleton, I actually found 
mj'self en route, and was not a little disappointed to 
see unmistakable signs of rain. 

Heinrich Heine poetically says : " Der Himmel 
hat eine Thrdne gewelnt y" evidently he was not 
speaking of Boston, for in this case, Heaven not only 
wept one, but many tears The dark clouds grew 
darker and the rain began to fall, timidly, softly, and 
exasperatingly, as it alone knows how to do in London 
and her sister, the Hub. I can always reconcile myself 
to a hearty down-pour, but I despise a half-and-half 
shower that will not come boldly out and acknowl- 
edge itself rain, hiding in the skirts of mist and 
deceiving all the world as to its legitimate intention. 
I always think that there must be something wrong 



68 Longfelloiv s CJiaractcr. 

overhead, yet I suppose in nature's great plan there 
must occasionally be a drizzle. 

Perhaps it is heresy, but I am not fond of travel- 
ing by water ; however, I allowed myself to be per- 
suaded to go by boat. After an hour's run we 
stopped, and the refreshing sight of a patch of green 
made me anxious to get once more on terra firma. 
The landing is very unpretentious, yet the feet of 
many distinguished people have trodden its simple 
boards. 

A party approaching, disclosed to view no less a 
person than the poet himself, accompanied by his 
daughters, with Mr. Nathan Appleton. The ladies 
were taking advantage of the wet day to go to town, 
my arrival being quite unexpected, on account of the 
rain. Begging them not to allow me to interfere 
with their plans, I had an agreeable escort back to the 
house in the persons of the poet and Mr. Nathan. 

Naliant, unlike most sea-side places, is a little 
bower of verdure. The coast is cultivated right to 
the water's edge. Smiling grasses and ferns lean 
lovingly over into the basin, unconsciously giving a 



Longfellow s Character. 69 

touch of art to nature's generosity. J^otliing is so dis- 
heartening as a sterile, barren beach, with no sight 
of trees or vegetation, and only hungry waters lap- 
ping remorselessly uj) on the strand. There is 
scai'cely any seaboard to speak of, and the grounds 
of the various properties extend quite to the water. 
They are all in a state of natural vegetation, with 
clambering vines, trailing sea- weed, and rocks lying 
np against the banks overgrown with moss and 
prettiness. 

Etretat, on the coast of Normandy, is not unlike 
Kahant in its retirement and natural beauty. We 
miss in our American resort the enormous falaises 
(cliffs) that clasp the French village in their embrace 
and stand boldly out to sea, forming a beautiful 
beach that is adorned by promenaders. Observed 
from a distance, it is like an old Gobelin tapestry 
pictured with living forms of brightness and beauty. 

Nahant, without the cliffs, is none the less invit- 
ing, and although the tableau is different, its quaint 
grace still reminds me of Etretat. 

The house occupied by the professor is large. 



70 Longfellow s Character 

roomy, and unpretentious. It is built of wood, in 
Italian style, with a broad porticoed terrace com- 
pletely surrounding it. The front part, facing the 
street, is two stories in height, and on the first floor 
French windows open out on the terrace, disclosing 
to view a velvety grass-plot. The back, with an 
additional wing, faces the sea, and a sharp descent in 
the hill gives it three stories on this side. The ter- 
race, thus having the appearance of a high balcony 
overlooking a picturesque declivity, commands a 
snperb view of the sea and surrounding country. 

There is a summer garden, replete with the richest 
vegetation. A profusion of wild roses and sweet- 
briar fills the air with perfume, while the many- 
leaved trees are so vine-entangled that their identity 
is imperiled by a luxuriant mass of living creepers. 

Bacon says, " God Almighty first planted a 
garden," and in the natural beauty of this one, we 
perceive the touch of the master hand. 

The place has a delightful home air, and like 
many country houses, the exterior is very simple. 

Its interior is scarcely more ostentatious. I say 



Longfellow s Character. y i 

"like" many houses, yet I think there are few in 
the world that would make the same effect, being 
equally unpretentious. 

The rooms, like those of the Craigie Mansion, 
are large, airy, sympathetic, and adorned in the most 
perfect taste. The prevailing tone is light, the 
chairs are mostly of bamboo or cane, and the floors 
are covered with carpets and matting. The walls 
are hung with fine pictures, embracing a variety 
of engravings, crayon sketches and water colors. 

Some curious painted pebbles, framed in a back- 
ground of velvet, form a unique and handsome orna- 
ment. They are the work of Mr. T. CI. Aj)pleton, 
and are faithful pictures of the surrounding scenery, 
together with other charming bits made from his 
sketches. They are remarkably well done, and the 
miniature size of the figures detracts nothing from 
their perfection. 

There is an air of refinement throughout the 
house that quickly communicates itself to the visitor, 
and a suspicious sprinkling, here and there, of the 



Longfellow's ^ CJiaracter. 



best authors, betrays the presence of the homiae de 
Uttres. 

Money will buy much, but the greatest of erj th's 
treasures, virtue and dignity of mind, are not salable 
articles. A room may be piled high with carved 
cases that hold only gaudy bindings and trashy vol- 
umes ; the paintings thereof may be Rafaelles 
Guidos, Kembrandts or Carlo Dolces ; the carpets the 
iinests that the looms of Persia fabricate ; the glasses 
exhaust the wealth of Venice ; the mosaics outvie 
the Florentine roses themselves, and the statuary 
reflect the handiwork of Michel Angelo's own 
chisel, yet the home where intellect is the high 
priest is richer in adornment than a palace filled 
with all these, and devoid of the refining influence 
that permeates a house inhabited by persons of intel- 
lect, education, and natural breeding. 

Longfellow lives in quiet luxury and elegance, 
while all the comforts of a real home surround him. 
Still, he is so much in himself, his very presence and 
manner are so infinitely more attractive than any 
article that decorates his dwelling, that the outward 



Lougfellow s Character. 73 

forms of wealth are but as dross, when compared 
with the inner beauties of a God-given mind. One 
must visit the poet many times before reaHzing that 
tlie four walls contain objects of luxury many and 
rare, and that here are scattered the thousand and 
one beautiful things that a man of taste instinctively 
gathers around liim. 

While the house in Cambridge is replete with 
chef-d^ocuvres inestimable in the world of art, yet 
never, with a single visit, could one carry away other 
souvenirs than that of a beautiful home and a har- 
monious household. It is the home of a poet, with 
the poet a dweller therein, himself t'le most perfect 
creation among his household gods. 

Longfellow shows, in a thousand ways, that he 
has no wish to appear ociier than a well-bred gentle- 
man. The complete absence of ostentation in his 
person and surroundings is not the least of liis 
chai-ms. 

Before I had been long an inmate of his house- 
hold an almost thorougli understanding of the man 

came to me. That which I had remarked, in a casual 
4 



74 Longfellow' s Character. 

visit, as seeming modesty and reticence, now im- 
pressed me as an absolute characteristic of the man. 

I think, in the history of all poets and distin- 
guished men of letters, some eccentricities of mind, 
character or person have been remarked. It is also 
a.j)ose among persons whose talent, perhaps genius, 
have lifted them out of the rut of every-day exist- 
ence, to feign some startling personality, whether 
from inordinate vanity, or a wish to be thought 
eccentric, or whether affected merely from the un- 
worthy love of being peculiar, has never been ex- 
plained. The fond cherishing of a false idea about 
self, carried to extremity, constitutes a glaring fault. 
It is excused in a professed " genius," simply because 
the world says " we must overlook this or that little 
idiosyncrasy, he has so much talent." 

A celebrated person, whose name I will not men- 
tion, nsed often to be so fatigued with the cares of 
the day that evening found him in a state not exactly 
authorized by Beau Brummel. He received his 
guests, liowever, and the charm of his exquisite con- 
versation blinded all to his appearance, with the 



Loiigfclloiv s Character. 75 

exception of one — an American. His visit was cur- 
tailed to the length of a fashionable call, and on his 
return home lie said, '■''Poet ou pas poet., faime du 
linge proprer (" Poet or not poet, I like clean 
linen.") 

^•Longfellow has no eccentricities, except the one 
of being the only poet in the world who avoids every 
notoriety, and who is content to live within the 
bosom of his family, a good father, and a plain, 
every-day citizen, never thrusting his opinions upon 
one, never vaunting his own talent, scarcely refer- 
ring, by word or deed, to anything he has ever 
written, and ignoring, with delightful modesty, the 
fact that he is more gifted than any one else in the 
world. 

I ought not to j)ay him the poor compliment, to 
say that he does not know himself, yet 1 have often 
thought that he really does not, and cannot appre- 
ciate his own worth and talent. 

How a man with his eminently superior knowl- 
edge and education can maintain, in the presence of 
the highest or lowest, such an absolute lack of self- 



'j^ Longfellow' s Character. 

coBSciousness, passes comprehension ; yet it is so. 
He is the gentlest and most modest of men, yet, at 
the same time, clothed with a dignity and self- 
respect which impresses all, and never once borders 
on the egotistical. 

Bacon says " a man's natnre is best perceived in 
privateness, for there is no affectation in passion, for 
that putteth a man out of his precepts, and in a new 
case or experiment, for there custom leaveth him ;" 
also, " that those are happy men whose natures sort 
with their vocations." 

It is not that Longfellow has forced a habit of 
softness upon himself. He has ever been unassum- 
ing and refined, moderate in all things, and perfectly 
self-poised. Whatever his inner consciousness of self 
may be, the outer world rests in profound ignorance 
and admiration. 

^sop's story of the cat who was changed into a 
maiden shows how far people can trust their natures. 
She was in every way a decorous damsel, until a 
mouse ran out from a corner before her, and from 
thenceforward the charms of young ladyhood were 



Lojigfelloiv s Character. yy 

forsrotten, for the cat nature was soon resuscitated 
into an immortal tabby. 

Those who make an effort to appear what they 
are not, and to completely change " what is born in 
the bone," might have need of ^sop's warning ; but 
in our poet's case it seems to me entirely lost, and I 
have only made use of the simile in order to place in 
greater relief the beauty of his real character. He 
makes no imposition on a wayward nature, but sim- 
ply lives out the life that has reached perfection by 
a continual following up of inherent principle. His 
aim towards the good, rather than the corrupt, is 
shown in his observance of the beautiful faith which 
commands us " to love our neighbor as ourself," the 
inborn honesty and straightforwardness of his soul, 
and the well-tempered justice that yields every one 
his right to be thought an " honest man until he is 
convicted a thief." 

In the smallest as well as greatest circumstances 
of life Longfellow is incapable of subterfuge, mis- 
statement, clap-trap, or make-believe. He enjoys with 
real humor anything that is funny while it does not 



78 Longfellow's Character. 

trespass on the bounds of decency or good taste, but 
a suspicion of aught else immediately causes him to 
close the ahnost wholly opened portals of counte- 
nance. He retires within himself in a half-anxious 
way that shows the infinite sensitiveness and suscep- 
tibility of his nature. I do not mean that even the 
hardiest person would attempt to say anything in his 
presence that could not be said in a fashionable 
drawing-room ; but Longfellow is peculiar in his 
tastes, and many things that would raise a smile in 
accepted circles, finds no answering smile in his 
heart. 

A very good idea of his appreciation of the in- 
nocently ridiculous, is in the description of the 
aesthetic tea at the house of Frau Kranich, in " Hy- 
perion," commencing with the one hundred and sev- 
enty-sixth page. 

The Moldavian Prince Jerkin makes his way 
through the crowds, being anxious to show off his 
English. In his haste he begins with a mistake^ 
saluting Paul Flemming thus : 

" Good-bye ! Good-bye ! Mr. Flemming," said be, 



Longfcllozv s Character. 79 

instead of good evening. "I am ravished to see 
you in Ems ; nice place ; — all that there is of 
most nice. I drink my water and am good. Do 
you not think the Frau Kranich has a very beautiful 
leather ?" 

Who would ever divine that the prince referred 
to the gracious lady's skin ? 

This chapter is replete with evidences of Long- 
fellow's brightness, and quick appreciation of wit in 
others. Near the end of the chapter on " Glimpses 
in Cloud Land," the professor speaks on time thus : 

" For what is time ? The shadow on the dial — 
the striking of the clock — the running of the sand — 
day and night — Summer and Winter — months, 
years, centuries — these are but arbitrary and out- 
ward signs, the measure of time, not time itself. 
Time is the life of the Soul. If not "this, then tell 
me, what is Time V 

The professor shrieks this aloud in a high voice, 
and the baron, half awakened, hearing the word 
" time," innocently exclaims : 

" I should think it must be near midnight." 



CHAPTEK T. 
A morning's occupation. 

*' Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing, 
Onward tli rough life he goes; 
Each morning sees some task begun, 

Each evening sees it close; 
Something attempted, something clone, 
Has earned a night's repose." 

The Village Blacksmith. 

•' That with a Iiand more swift ;uul sure, 
The greater labor might be brought 
To answer to his inward thought." 

The Building of the Ship. 

Jp^,^^]HE professor is an early riser, and at nine 
'r ^ P*^ ^^^® family assembles for breakfast. The 
^^/^^)| dining-room looks out on the back 
terrace, and from there beyond to the sea. 
The weather was beautiful, and the sun poured a 

continuous shower of iridescent rays into the apart- 

[80] 



A Morning's Occupation. 



meiit. They danced lightly liither and thither, at 
times making a shining halo above the poet's snowy 
head, anon falling lightly on the golden braids of 
Edith, Mrs. Dana, or flinging a defiant aureole above 
the brow of Mr. T. G. Appleton, who is the poet's 
ms-d-vis at table. 

One thing particularly noticeable is the quaint 
ceremony which is never entirely done away with in 
this family. Each person addresses the other with 
well-bred deference, and the familiarity that some- 
times excuses a " thanks " or "if you please " among 
one's own, here is conspicuous for its absence. 

Of the poet's own family there were present his 
two daughters, Miss Annie, the younger, and Mrs. 
Kichard Dana (Edith), and her husband, the second 
of the " trio," Mr. T. G. and Mr. Kathan Appleton, 
Mr. Longfellow's brothers-in-law, and among the 
guests the charming and talented artiste, Miss Susan 
Hale, and Mr. Craig, of New York. 

You may imagine that the fine weather put every- 
body in good spirits, and the table was enlivened by 

appropriate small-talk, plans for the day, and the 
4* 



82 A Morning s Occupation. 

usual inquiries of liow the " night was passed." 
Longfellow takes some of the tea before mentioned 
at early breakfast, a bit of toast, and perhaps an ^^^^ 
either poached or sur-le-jjlat. lie eats so little that 
one can scarcely perceive of v»'hat consists his repast. 
He is cheerful, good-humored, and devoid of fancies 
as regards his own health, yet never for a moment 
treats those of othei-s lightly. Conversation rarely 
drags, and the slightest possible break is adroitly 
covered by the ready grace of the professor. 

The eldest at table, lie might be the youngest. 
It is impossible to imagine, witliout having passed 
some time in the presence of this wonderful man, 
how great are his resources, and what youthful vigor 
animates his every thought and action. 

While he speaks with the experience of ripened 
years, he yet invests every subject with the enthusi- 
asm of Paul Flemming, and the graceful flowing 
utterance of a poet. The tender fancies, the soft 
expressions and ready imagination of the bard color 
all his thoughts, and their outward expression is no 
less happy. The most commonplace subjects receive 



A Mornings Occupation, 83 



a new interest, when eitlicr argued or discussed by 
the professor, and ]io question ouoe entered upon is 
ever dismissed without its full uiete of attention. 

After breakfast a general sally takes place 
through the French window, and the broad balcony 
is soon peopled with animated faces, foremost 
among them that of the poet. He sits at a round 
table drawn up near the edge of the terrace, with a 
light mantle thrown across his shoulders to protect 
him from the sea-breeze, which is alwaj^s strong and 
brisk at K'ahant. The pile of letters and periodicals 
is almost appalling. The lion's share is his, and he 
speedily commences his morning's work, in the de- 
vastation of the mass. Unlike most people, the 
poet rarely scans the envelope before opening, in 
order to know the signature of the letter. He de- 
liberately cuts through the upper ledge with a paper 
knife, and methodically extracts the inclosed mis- 
sive. 

Occasionally an exclamation will break from his 
lips, such as, " Dear me," " Just look at this," 
" How am I to get through so long a letter," etc., 



84 A Mornings Occupation. 



etc. Many send him original poems begging him 
to read them and respond quickly as to his opinion 
of their talent, while others, less modest, kindly in- 
vite him, after reading, to be good enough to cor- 
rect or alter the MSS. in any way to suit himself. 
The poet attempts to read each effort, and only 
when too unwortliy docs he give up in despair, with 
a sigh the luckless MSS. is replaced on the table, 
and another taken up, shares the same fate. The 
letters requesting autographs are many, and always 
responded to with the desired signature. 

By the way, what a beautiful calligraphy his is. 
SHghtly back-handed, with neat, distinct lettering, 
prominent capitals, and ingenuous small letters, each 
one made in just such a way and with just so much 
precision. When he begins writing one detects a 
slight undulation in the descending stroke, as if the 
strong quill were not quite firmly held for an instant, 
then on, steadily, until it finishes each letter with firm- 
ness and exactitude. There arc no marked signs of 
the professional flourisher, no heavily shaded letters, 
no inequality in their size. Each figui'e has careful 



A Mornings Occupation. 85 

justice rendered it, and a perfectly legible, honest 
handwi-iting is the result. The vowels are also 
quite prominent, the consonants all duly weighed. 
IIow many in this world commit wholesale I'obbery 
in the item of dots and crossing of t's, while a 
shameful disrespect is vouchsafed more than one of 
the cabalistic twenty-six that form the glory of our 
English alphabet. 

Many people profess to be able to read character 
from handwriting. I think in Longfellow's case 
the task would be an easy one. Would that all the 
world paid the attention that he does to detail. He 
evinces a special affection for small things, and 
nothing worth doing is so trivial that all due atten- 
tion is not paid it. I never saw a blot upon his 
paper, a word erased by that species of barred-gate- 
isra that reminds one of the prisoner's window in 
the trial by Pontius Pilate, or one of those un- 
healthy daubs that is the conventional obliteration 
of a word that has lost its usefulness for the 
quondam writer, 

Longfellow is especially pleased with letters from 



86 A Mornings Occitpaiion. 

children, and wlieii well written he even grows 
enthusiastic, lie reads and re-reads with pleasure, 
and many are the flattering comments that I have 
heard after the perusal of some juvenile effort. I 
think the poet, while appreciating the honors and 
attention received from the old, is no less touched 
by the admiration of the little ones. Speaking of 
attention, I must say that hi-;;h or low, rich or poor, 
receive the same tribute of courtesy fj-om the poet, 
in response to an implied or outspoken compliment. 
Whatever comes from the heart appeals directly 
to his own delicate sense of feeling, and the slightest 
attempt on the part of any one to render himself 
agreeable is not lost or unnoticed by him ; on the 
contrary, the more faintly manifested the praise, the 
greater is his satisfaction. All of the letters ad- 
dressed to him are more or less complimentary. 
Those with the bare-faced element predominating 
are received and read in silence, while others of 
modilied expression seem i-eally to please bin.. 

After the correspondence is gone through with 
he turns to the daily papers, and from these to the 



A Mornings Occupation. 8/ 



magazines and monthlies, of wJiicli there is an unend- 
ing stock. I remember on this particakir day he was 
much amused, and as often shocked, by reading an 
article on epitaphs that was going the rounds of the 
papers. Some were given aloud for our benefit, and 
the comments were one and all noticeable. The 
professor straightened out the paper, adjusted his 
glasses, and read with a distinct voice. It was curious 
to listen to the intonations and the half-deprecative 
utterance when the thing was too irreverent, also to 
follow the humorous half-laugh that betrayed itself 
in his voice when a really witty thing was unearthed. 
The following are among the amusing ones that the 
professor read aloud : 

ON THOMAS WOODCOCK. 

" Here lies the body of Thomas Wood^e/i 
The most amiable of husbands, and excellent of men." 

N. B. — His real name was Woodwc/i;, but it woulda't 
come in rhyme. — His widow. 

ON A BREWER. 

" Poor John Scott lies buried here; 
Tho' once he was both Imlc and stout^ 
Death stretched him on his Intter hiei\ 
In another world lie liops about." 



88 A Mornings Occupation. 

The following is from a German to a stone-cut- 
ter, to be put on his wife's tomb : 

" My wife Susum is dead ; if she had life till next Friday, 
she'd been dead shust two weeks. As a tree falls so must 
she stand. All things is impossible mit God." 

THO. KEMP ON SHEEP STEALING. 

" Here lies tlie borly of Thos. Kemp 
Who lived Ijy wool, but died by hemp; 
There's notliing would suffice this glutton, 
But, with the fleece, to stcul the mutton; 
Had he but worked and lived uprighter 
He'd ne'er been hung for a sheep biter." 

The poet's voice cease J, unci ho laid down the 
paper, commenting at the same time upon tJie great 
waste of space in the newspapers of to-day, besides 
the baleful habit of making light of death, and topics 
that should only suggest serious thought. He said 
that where one of these so-called curious epitaphs 
might be admissible, a thousand were irreverent, even 
sacrilegious ; where one was touchingly and innocently 
amusirfg, another was simply low, and scarcely com- 
ical enough to bo interesting. " I often read bits," 
he said, " that wonderment afterwards causes me to 



A Mornings Occupation. 89 

ask ' however can such a thing come to be printed.' 
Although," adding, with his usual justice, " it is no 
sign, because I do not appreciate it, that a reason did 
not exist for its having been written ; and many in 
the world may like and admire what I could not give 
a second thought to ; still, I do not in general enjoy 
levity in coimection with sacred subjects." 

A slight controversy here ensued, and from epi- 
taphs we veered around to poetry. Up to the pres- 
ent time I had taken but little share in the conversa- 
tion. A momentary lull gave me a chance to speak, 
and not interrupt. 

" Yes," said I, deliberately, when all had finished, 
"there is no accounting for the rubbish that will in 
spite of judicious weeding find its way to publicity ; 
the authors are never known, and perhaps it is as 
well. I can at present only call to mind one instance, 
under the head of poetry, which runs as follows : or" 
— I stopped with an inquiring look around, and half 
hesitatingly ventured to retract my implied idea of 
repeating it. In vain — an earnest "Pray go on," 
" continue," in whicli the professor's voice was upper- 



90 A Morning s Occupation, 

most in the chorus, positively insisted on hearing the 
aforesaid " rubbish ; " clearing my throat, I began — 

"There was a little durl, 

And she had a little; curl 
That hung iu the middle of her forehead, 

When she was dood, 

She was very dood indeed, 
But. when she was bad she was horrid." 



I looked up triumphantly as the last line rang out. 
Depict, iniagino, my confusion when the j)oet raised 
his eyes, and with a faint smile, said : " Why ! those 
are my words, are they not, Annie," turning to his 
youngest daughter, who at that moment was grace- 
fully coming througli the low window opening out 
on the terrace, at the same time repeating the identi- 
cal rliythm tliat but a moment before 1 had signalized 
as a sample of " rubbish." Miss Annie looked up 
laughingly, and said in her cheery voice, "Why, of 
course, papa, that comes in your nursery collection. 
Don't you remember when Edith was a little girl and 
didn't want to have her hair curled, you took her up 
in your arms, and shaking your linger at her, com- 
menced, ' There was a little girl,' '' etc., etc. 



A Alorning's Occupation. 91 



The poet langlied, they all laughed, and I, in spite 
of my discomfiture, joined in the general merriment. 
Had I not insisted strenuously that the " lines went the 
rounds," and would never die out along with other 
rubbish, the discovery to me of their real authorship 
would not have been so awkward ; but to declare to 
a gentleman's face an opinion which at best could 
have little real value, and that opinion anything but 
flattering, tried me sorely. The poet is so good- 
natured that he said nothing ; but it was impossible 
not to laugh. It was one of those coincidences that 
occur when least expected. Yet rarely does one 
"get come up with " in such a brutally matter-of- 
fact way. I still think my mental equilibrium was 
greatly disturbed, aud my self-esteem dropped lower 
and lower into the depths of humiliation. Why on 
earth had [ not stumbled on some other simile ? But 
no, to add to my perplexity, Mr. I^athan asked me 
pleasantly if I " could remember any more of the same 
kind," and then we all got to laughing in real earnest. 
It was too funny, and I forgot my own discomfitui'e in 
watching the evident enjoyment of the professor. 



92 A Mornings Occupation. 



First, he was grave, then a ripple stole from his 
lips in a half unconscious way, until finally, yielding 
to the general impulse toward risibility, it broke irre- 
sistibly out like a mountain rivulet. Timidly at first 
it leaves nature's bed, and as it flows onward, flows 
itself out ever in greater strength, until it joins a 
rushing torrent that carries everything before it. 
Just so is the professor's laugh. Faint at first, then 
breaking into a series of hearty cadences that give 
one a pleasant sensation on hearing them ; when he 
finishes, a half sigh follows the last little gurgle, and 
a homely " dear me, how I do laugh," restores the 
speaking countenance to its own former likeness. 

How few have a sympathetic smile 1 how few a 
sympathetic laugh ! and again, how many make a 
sounding-board of the roof of their mouth, which 
echoes successive shrieks of merriment, while the 
face expresses any other sentiment than that of fun. 
Others, vice versa, betray in every feature the half 
suppressed laughter that threatens momentarily to 
burst all bounds, and through the natural outlet 
communicates itself to all present. The world is 



A Mornings Occupation. 93 

full of sad hearts and faces, but vvc welcome with 
joy the advent of any individual with the natural 
attribute of a wholesome, hearty, joyous and uncon- 
strained laugh. 

Such is the natural gift of God that few are the 
enviable possessors of, and it is one of the many 
that endow our great poet. While he rarely ex- 
presses his feelings impulsively, he. still yields him- 
self up wholly to the charm of the moment, and 
whatever mirthful deserves a genuine laugh, the 
professor tenders his tribute with unstint of gracious- 
ness, and in so honest a way that it docs one's heart 
good to see and hear him. 

Hovv I have wandered from our morning's real 
business ! Apropos of the poem aforesaid, some 
one suggested to me the thought of revenge, and 
with a little of the inherent viciousness in woman 
the suggestion was eagerly carried out, the poet 
waiting courteously to give me my " revanche^ I 
dared to respond " that my gross blunder was inex- 
cusable, and a possibility of such ever arising in 
future, could only be avoided in one way. In order 



94 -"^ Mornings Occupation. 

not to be inistakeu authors must feel the value of 
putting their name to everything they write, even 

when that name bo Longfellow." 

I, with the common herd, cannot always appre- 
ciate, but out of deference to a name all the world 
reveres I would be silent. Under the circumstances, 
knowing how and why it came to be written, my 
" rubbish '' transmogrifies itself into a cunning and 
appropriate ballad. 



GHAPTEE yi. 

Longfellow's idea of poetical influence. 

" O ye dead Poets who arc living still 
Immortiil in your verse, thougli life be fled, 
And ye, O living Poets, who are dead 
Though ye are living, if neglect can kill, 
Tell me if in the darkest hours of ill, 
With drops of anguish falling fast and red 
From the sharp crown of thorns upon your head, 
Ye were not glad your errand to fulfill ? 
Yes: for the gift and ministry of song 
Have something in them so divinely sweet, 
It can assuage the bitterness of wrong; 
Not in the clamor of the crowded street, 
Not in the shouts and plaudits of tiie throng. 
But in ourselves, are triumph and defeat." 

The Poets. 

IIIIS morning we took a little walk, and 
1^^ the poet, who bad slept well, seemed, 
)J strange to say, nervons, and ill at ease. 
This feeling soon wore off, for who, in 

the presence of so delightful a family party, could 

[95] 




96 Longfellozv s Idea of Poetical Influence. 



long "sit in sadness "? x\fter breakfast, lie was en- 
livened bj nurnerons visitors, and sat on the balcony 
receiving his guests with great vivacity and evident 
pleasure. From the adjoining library I could hear 
his voice, now in earnest, now in lighter talk, but 
more than usually gay. 

It seemed scarcely a wholesome humor, however, 
and I could frequently detect a nervous rising in 
the vibrating tones, that was not habituary. Hav- 
ing no part in the conversation I could not listen, or 
even stay in my corner when my work was finished, 
so I stole away until we met at luncheon. 

He seemed in a peculiarly restless state, and 
spoke with quick precision, and in an outspoken 
manner that was even beyond his usual terseness, 
so I wondered of what he could have been think- 
ing. He ate, as usual, tlie slightest possible amount 
of food, and seemed watchful of every word that 
was uttered at table. We adjourned to the drawing- 
room accompanied by Mr. Nathan Appleton, and 
Mr. Craig, a young gentleman who was visiting the 
poet at the time, and in a few moments the general 



Lougfellozv s Idea of Poetical Influence. 97 

conversation began. There were some fresh flowers 
on the table, and thinking one to be a camellia, I 
remarked upon its odorless beauty, and asked the 
poet if he had ever read " La Dame aux Camelias," 
by Alexander Dumas, Jr. He spoke up quickly, 
answering, 

" No ; I commenced it, but could not continue, 
as it seemed to me a book for unhealthy appetites. 
I doubt not there is much that is fine in it, as Dumas 
is a man of extraordinary imagination and skill, but 
I cannot bring myself to read such works as 'La 
Dame aux Camelias.' " 

He went on with increasing warmth, 
" Now, there is another French writer whose 
books have probably been read by millions, but to 
whose writing I can never turn with pleasure. I 
speak of Alfred de Musset, a man with a God-given, 
beautiful talent, l)ut all for the bad. I often think 
of what he might have done in the world, had his 
mind been on anything pure or virtuous. Look at 
' Rolla ' ' une nuit de Mai,' could more inspired 
or exquisite language have found its way into 



gS Longfelloiv s Idea of Poetical Injiiience. 

verse? yet mark the intent of the poem. I read, 
and read on, lialf fascinated by the flowing grace, 
passion and eloquence of his rhythm, then some 
startling outburst of infidelity shocks me so that 
1 leave the book with horror, and say to my 
soul, ' How sad ! a beautiful talent gone to waste ; a 
brilliant imagination seeing only the spectacle of 
ribaldry and infamy ; a bright spark of genius, 
growing and passing its life grovelling amongst the 
tares of a dissolute and morally unhealthy clime.' 
He is to me a heart-rending example of the uses to 
which a man may dedicate a great gift originally of 
divine import, whose whole life and writings are 
made up of worldliness, license and innate cravings 
after unhealthy mental food. His words pander 
to the vilest taste, while the beauty with which he 
clothes his ideas is undeniable. Even in some of 
his most violent outbursts, he does not divest his 
pages of charm, and exquisite wording. He seems 
to have lived with a gloss of utter indifference to 
any faith covering a soul that I have often hoped 
was not so barren as he himself painted it. I de- 



Longfellow s Idea of Poetical Influence. 99 

plore witli my whole heart such a mistaken life, 
that had within it the wherewith to be something 
great and true. Only think ! had he described good 
with the eloquence and sincerity that he bestowed 
on vice, what a benefit he would have been to the 
world, and what a series of powerful arguments he 
would have wielded for mankind, with a brain and 
pen that followed each other in such a headlong tor- 
rent of irresistible poetry ? One might overlook an 
occasional skepticism, but no one with any respect 
for virtue and goodness could remain unmoved 
while reading any one of his poems. His fanatical 
tendency to scoff and laugh to scorn the slightest 
thing that is good, is a terrible power in the hands 
of a man of genius. As a student I read, but as a 
God-fearing man, I lament." 

Never had I heard the poet speak with greater 
warmth, and so anxious was I to hear more, that 
when he continued the subject of poets and poetical 
license, I took the liberty of defending them in a 
moderate way. 

" You are wrong," he said, decidedly, " when 



lOo Longfellow s Idea of Poetical Influence. 

oue finds in writing that his imagination is running 
away with him, it is time to stop ; I always did." 

" Yes," said I, quickly, " you show in your writ- 
ings often — " but I stopped shamefacedly. Did I 
dare to criticise Longfellow ? 

He looked up eagerly and said, 

" Pray, don't stop ; what were you going to re- 
mark about my writings % I should like your opinion." 
Then he assumed a curious attitude of interest and 
impatience. 

I could not back out ingloriously, so went on : 

" In your writings 1 find a want of laisser aller^ 
that in the poetic sense often hastens a climax. 
When, by some outburst of passion, you work your 
reader up to fever heat, you quietly leave the dan- 
gerous ground, and instead of an unlimited outpour 
of intense feeling, one has to be satisfied with sim- 
pler and more modified expressions. Still even you, 
yourself, cannot always hide the deep under-current 
of passion that runs surreptitiously through your 
verse, and almost threatens, at times, to break the 
bounds." 



Longfellow' s Idea of Poetical Influence. loi 

" But it never does," interrupted the poet, ex- 
citedly. " I understand what you mean, but I 
always try, whenever my fancy leads me on, to have 
a due regard for outward form. I could not write 
that which poetic license permits if it goes 
against my conscience and teachings. But pray let 
us speak of some one else rather than myself, 
although you will understand, some day, why I speak 
thus." 

Mr. Nathan Appleton came up and touched my 
shoulder, for with the poet's words we had risen, and 
as I supposed, conversation for that day was at an 
end, I was just going out when his brother-in-law 
spoke. 

" You have told him the truth," he said, " and I 
think, in twenty years, no one has ever said as much 
to him ; but mind, he has not finished with you, and 
to-morrow, or later to-day, you will have his answer." 

He then went out, and I returned to my room to 
reflect on what I had said almost too abruptly to the 
dear old poet. I had often thought of this, yet 
never dreamed that, in the heat of conversation, my 



I02 Longfellow'' s Idea of Poetical Influence. 

headlong talk would have resulted in such plain 
speaking. I realized how much superior to all things 
was this man's sense of right and honor, and how, 
perhaps, he had, at times, sacrificed many an idea 
that would have formed, in Byron, an innocent 
glory. Before going in to dinner, we met on the 
terrace. He came directly to me, put out his hands, 
and said, with a sweet voice but reproachful accents, 

" You speak with the enthusiasm of youth, but 
even had I the inclination, one could scarcely expect 
me to lie awake at night writing things that would 
set a bad example to a class of thirty young men 
whom I had to teach in the morning. Heaven be 
praised ! I tried at least to be guided by the right 
spirit." 

I was not surprised with the poet's outspoken 
words regarding Alfred de Musset, for any one who 
had ever known Longfellow and the June atmos- 
phere of his home-life, could readily understand his 
condemnation of that poet's mode of living, and the 
unsavory sentiment with which his poems were 
filled. 



Longfelloiv s Idea of Poetical Infiuencc. 103 

De Mnsset lived at a time when virtue was almost 
a fiction in France, and his dissolute habits, and con- 
stant companionship with scoffers and unbelievers, 
was not calculated to turn his mind readily into a 
better channel. Pie was born the eleventh of De- 
cember, 1810, in the old part of Paris, in a street 
near the Hotel Cluny. The house still bears the 
number, 33 Rue des Noyers. He died a little past 
midnight of May 1, 1857, two months after his 
reception and entrance into the French Academy. 
At the age of forty-seven, brilliant in all intellectual 
attainments, but physically a wreck, the life that 
had been so full of promise and bright hopes, and so 
covered with questionable glory, was sapped at its 
roots by the grim monster, consumption, and at an 
early day his family feared he would be one of its 
victims. His poetic taste showed itself at a very 
tender age, and before he was eighteen he had 
abeady published something of account. " Eolla " is 
one of his most touching poems, others also breathe, 
in certain lines, a spirit of unbelief and atheism appal- 
ling to read, and sad to think about as coming from 



104 Long fellow' s Idea of Poetical Influence. 

the soul of a young man divinely gifted. He was 
only twenty-three when this was published in the 
famous Parisian monthly, " Revue des deux 
Mondes^'' and from that time forth his works 
followed each other in quick succession. "For- 
tunio," " la Nuit de Mai," " la Nuit de Decembre," 
" To Ninon," " A Confession," " A Letter to Lamar- 
tine," several plays, " Caprice," a translation of 
Shakespeare's " As you Like It " (comme il vous 
plaira), a quantity of lesser, but more " spirituelle " 
efforts, and in a second volume of poems, I can 
readily understand his own preference, given to his 
strongest works — " le Fils de Titien," " Lorenzaccio," 
and " Carmosine." Besides these, with prolific and 
unimpaired talent, he wrote, until his death, numer- 
ous sonnets, essays and letters, all with exquisite 
poetic rhythm, but most of them tainted with the 
dreadful impurity of thought and association that 
distinguishes Alfred de Musset from a great galaxy 
of French writers, the most talented, the most bril- 
liant, but the most hardened. He, among few, may 
fully claim the title " genius," as no late writer of 



Longfellow s Idea of Poetical Influence. 105 

the nineteenth century h:is ever compared with, or 
exceeded the beauty of his language, or style of 
writing, Victor Hugo is unapproachable, the ac- 
knowledged king of French poets, and in speaking 
of others one should always remember that he takes 
precedent. They can only come after, but Alfred 
de Musset follows closely in his footsteps. He gave 
to the world so striking an example of poetic talent, 
that he may be considered as the second light in the 
French firmament of literature. Perhaps, as Long- 
fellow said, had his own every-daylife been different, 
one might have discovered a healthier tone in his 
mind pictures. His mode of living must have been 
singularly abasing to the intellect, and harassing to 
the mental and physical resources of the man. His 
nights were spent in feasting and orgy ; his days in 
preparing for the following night. His truest friends 
were his own family, but he paid little attention to 
them. He probably never knew the refining influ- 
ence of the lov2 of one good woman, and even his 
" mattresses " were fickle, unfaithful, and interested. 

No wonder that one of his fitful genius and unsatia- 
5* 



io6 Longfellow s Idea of Poetical Influence. 

ble appetite for sensational scenes, to-day enjoyed 
the society of ladies such as Pauline Yiardot, and 
to-moiTow wept tears of sorrow at an inflexible 
Ninon. His whole existence, from the time when 
he left college until his death, seemed one raging 
whirlpool of immoderate excess, with the sentiments 
in his soul warring and clashing with one another. 
He seemed penetrated by ugliness as by beauty, and 
as fascinated with one as with the other ; he extolled 
virtue with the same breath that he encouraged vice, 
and to everything, good or bad, he lent the charm of 
his inimitable verse, and wrote, alas, with equal 
enthusiasm and brilliancy, no matter what the moral 
tendency of his subject, and no matter in what ques- 
tionable light it presented the author to the world. 
Few writers would dare say what Longfellow has 
said, yet with tender pity for a misled life, and due 
appreciation of the marvelous influence that one 
with " a divine talent " might have exercised, had he 
chosen to employ his gifts for the benefit of man- 
kind. Longfellow may be a Puritan in one sense of 
the word, but while the life of the one is a long 



Longfelloivs Idea of Poetical Tnfltience. 107 



hymn of praise to tlie great Maker, that of the other 
is lost in the maelstrom of discord and unevenness. 
It spent itself in a short blaze of transcendent glory, 
and was soon obliterated within a pall of densest 
smoke. So lives the name and memory of Alfred 
de Musset, His genius will beguile, but his works 
will ever grate on those who find life, as does Long- 
fellow, beautiful in Faith, Hope and Charity. 



CHAPTER YII. 



Longfellow's appreciation of parody. 



*' True, his songs were not divine; 
"Were not songs of that high art, 
Which, as winds do in the pine, 
Find an answer in each lieart; 
But the mirth 
Of tliis green earth 
Laughed and reveled in his line." 

Oliver Basselin. 

CAME down-stairs this morning still think- 
ing of our late conversation. It was so 
early that no one was yet visible, so I had a 
fine stroll and went over the pretty garden 
so overrun with its wealth of verdure. All the while 
my mind kept running on the poet, and the various 
conversations that we had had. I went to the foot of 
the garden and cautiously descending a very narrow 
path, prepared to lean over and dip my hands in the 

salt water that came purring up so lovingly against 
[108] 




Longfellow s Appreciation of Parody. 109 

tlie domesticated rocks. They stood there, grim old 
things, as if all their life consisted in growing old 
gracefully, with a quantity of green vines hanging to 
them, enlivened by the daily conversation of the sea, 
and the friendly waves that dashed up to say " good 
morning ;" with a few old family friends like moss 
and sea- weed, who never left them, and who added, to 
the obligation of finding a shelter, the eternal one of 
staying there forever. 

While I was slipping and turning about, I was 
startled by a hearty '•''Bon jour P'' and a pleasant 
laugh. 

Looking up, I saw the professor at his open 
window, looking very youthful, and gazing down 
upon me. My decidedly ungraceful attitude must 
have excited his risibilities, for he looked highly 
amused at something and said quickly, as I glanced 
about me, 

" Oh, don't go away, I am coming down 
directly." 

I made a great effort and clambered back to meet 
him on a more substantial footing. 



I lo Longfellow's Appreciation of Parody. 

The sight of nearly all the family gathered on 
the balcony, reminded me that perhaps I had been a 
little long in my solitary rambling, and breakfast was 
ready, so I retraced my footsteps towards the house. 
I met the professor in the front hall, and we went 
into the parlor where the table was laid out, and, 
as I had half divined, waiting. 

The poet was very agreeable, and congratulated 
me on my early rising. 

'' I am up betimes, myself," he said, " but I am 
afraid that you have outdone me this morning, how- 
ever. No matter how late I am up at night, I never 
can sleep later the following morning. I usually 
wake up about the same hour, eight o'clock." 

While we sat at table Mr. Appleton began one of 
his cheerfal anecdotes. I laughed, and he said, 

"Pray now, madam, don't say that you have 
heard it before, as you would spoil a good story for 
the rest of us." 

Touched by such a picture I decided to sacri- 
fice myself, and he continued his recital. 

" Your asking if I had heard it," I said, " reminds 



Longfellozvs Appreciation of Parody. 1 1 1 

me of something very funny, but I do not know that 
I can tell it without offending the poet. It is a 
parody on one of his poems." 

" One of my poems?" said Longfellow ; " I would 
be delighted to hear it rather than offended. I beg 
you will repeat it." 

So I began : 

"A longtime ago I went to see a comical musical 
farce in the theater, where some people traveling on 
the Rhine pass a dull evening with snatches of song, 
quotations from famous authors, &c. One of the 
travelers asked to entertain the company, gets up and 
begins — 

" ' Lives of great men all remind us,' 

" The other quietly interrupts, ' I know the lines.' 
But the speaker, continues, 

" ' We can make our lives sublime," 

" Vigorous interruption from the same source, '/ 
know the lines ! ' 

" The unabashed reciter keeps composedly on — 



1 1 2 Longfellow" s Appreciation of Parody. 
" 'And in dying leave behind us ' 

" Threats and outcries from the man who inter- 
rupts, 

" ' I KNOW THE LINES ! ' 

" Then together thej joined hands, went into the 
steps of a break-down, and shrieked at the full pitch 
of their lungs, — 

*' 'And in dying leave behind us 

Foot-prints with our seven-by-nines.'" 

That was enough for the poet. He broke into 
shouts of laughter, and said : 

" Dear me, how very funny ! And to think that 
I, who wrote the original, never conceived so soul- 
stirring an end for that verse." 

" It is not to be wondered at," said some one 
present, " your feet are too small to have suggested 
it." 

" Although," interrupted the poet, " my feet gen- 
erally fill the meter." (Meter is the French for 
yard.) 



Longfellow's Appreciation of Parody. 1 1 3 

After that, the expression "I know the lines," 
became a household word. 

The poet continued laughing until the tears came 
into his eyes, and he blamed himself for being, as he 
said, so childish. Seeing that he enjoyed parody, I 
told him about an evening at the house of a countess, 
in Verona, Avhen poor Dante had a new rendering 
given by the young Count P . 

"Without changing a word, he commenced, 

" Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita mi ritro- 
vai per una selva oscura," etc., etc., " che la diritta 
via era smarrita," and gave the words such a pecu- 
liar reading, accompanied by appropriate gestures, 
that everybody shouted with laughter ; at the word 
" vita " (waist, in English), he spanned his own sol- 
dier-like dimensions with such effeminate glee that 
the double meaning of the word was fully apparent. 
But the climax was reached when he prepared to 
commence the third stanza. 

Clearing his throat he began to talk, but stopped 
as if encountering something that tasted peculiar. He 
kept on working his face into such terrible grimaces, 



114 Longfellow s Appreciation of Parody. 

aiion rolling his eyes, scraping his tongue, and fin- 
ally dropping a frantic hand over the pit of his 
stomach with a gesture of such utter despair, that 
nobody was surprised when the words came out. 
With a last awful shudder, and in a hysterical shrill 
voice, he screamed, " Tanto e amaro, che poco era 
piu morte " 

Before I could finish the professor was con- 
vulsed ; he said, " No wonder." 

" ' Tanto e amaro,' is bitter enough in Dante's 
own forcible language, yet see how without chang- 
ing a word the line has a different meaning when 
accompanied by such vivid gestures. 1 laugh now, 
what would it have been had I been in Verona that 
evening ?" 

Longfellow, who had followed the thread of the 
story, was prepared for it, but he had the fit on, 
and could not control his emotion. As soon as he 
recovered his breath he would break out anew, and 
finally, when his strength was exhausted, he said, 

" It is really terrible to parodize a man like 



Longfelloiv s Appreciation of Parody. 1 1 5 

Dante, yet it is funny, and I must enjoy it in spite 
of the source." 

" Now," said Mr. Nathan, " that we are on the 
subject of parodies, you must hear Mr. Longfellow on 
his own poems. I think they are too funny not to 
be honored with a mention. Once my nephew 
Charles came to pay us a visit, when we resided in 
Lynn ; I think about fifteen years ago. He would 
come in a sail-boat, but as the Avater was fearfully 
high, the frail bark capsized, and Master Charles 
got a good ducking. When he reached our house 
he was a sorry, wet-looking fellow enough, and, of 
course, had to change his clothes. 1 loaned him a 
pair of slippers which he wore home in lieu of boots, 
and the next day a neat parcel came over from 
Nahant, with the following lines written on the out- 
side in Mr. Longfellow's hand : 

" 'Slippers that perhaps another, 
Sailing o'er the bay of Lynn, 
A forlorn or shipwrecked nephew 
Seeing, may purloin again.'" 

A roar of laughter greeted Mr. Appleton's recita- 



1 1 6 Longfellow's Appreciation of Parody. 

tion, and we all agreed that the poet himself " knew 
the lines." 

" That is not all," added Mr. Nathan ; " 1 remem- 
ber some other verses, not parody exactly, but ex- 
tremely funny, and I am sure you would all like 
to hear them. Permit rae," turning to the poet. 

" Nay," said Mr. Longfellow, half shamefacedly, 
" I think that I am becoming too prominent, and 
perhaps " 

" There are no perhaps's," returned Mr. Nathan, 
" I must tell this. When my father was traveling 
in Switzerland, a long time ago, having postilions, 
footmen, etc., the bills were frightful, and in Zurich, 
even heavier. My father had already written his 
name in the visitors' books with compliments for 
the lovely place, and when his bill was brought in 
he regretted his undue haste and amiability. Mr. 
Longfellow came up and said, 

" ' Praj"^, let me add my autograph and treat the 
landlord as he merits.' 

" The inn was called ' The Raven,' and Mr. Long- 
fellow wrote the following: in his book : 



/ 

Longfellow' s Appreciation of Parody. 1 1 7 

" ' Beware of tlie Raven of Zurich, 
'Tis a bird of omen ill, 
With an ugly, unclean nest • 

And a very, very long bill.' " 

This time even the professor had to laugh. He 
remembered the circumstance too well to forget the 
impression made on his mind by the landlord's ex- 
tortion, and he added to Mr. Nathan's words these : 
*' I am afraid that page wherein those lines are in- 
scribed is not the first shown to tlie visitors at '■ The 
Raven.' I never went there again, but surely we 
shall never forget Zurich." 

Our parodies ended with a quotation from an 
English paper, on " Hiawatha :" 

** Should you ask rae, What's its nature ? 
Ask me, What's tlie kind of poem ? 
Ask me in respectful language, 
Touching your respectful beaver. 
Kicking back your manly hind-leg. 
Like to one who sees his betters; 
I should answer, I should tell you, 
'Tis a poem in this metre, 
And embalming the traditions, 
Fables, rites, and superstitions. 
Legends, charms, and ceremonials 
Of the various tribes of Indians, 



1 1 8 Longfellow s Appreciation of Parody. 

From the land of the Ojibways, 

From the land of the Dacotahs, 

From the mountains, moors, and fenlands 

Where the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gar, 

Finds its sugar in the rushes: 

From the fast decaying nations, 

Which our gentle Uncle Samuel 

Is improving very smartly, 

From the face of all creation, 

OflE the face of all creation. 

" Should you ask m >, By what story, 
By what action, plot, or fiction, 
All these matters are connected? 
I should answer, I should tell you, 
Go to Bogue and buy the poem, 
Published, neatly, at one shilling, 
Published, sweetly, at five shillings." 



CHAPTEK YIII. 

LONGFELLOW VISITS JULES JANIN. 

" A millstone and the human heart are driven ever round, 
If they have nothing else to grind, they must themselves 
be ground." 

The Restless Heart. 

" Perchance the living still may look 
Into the pages of this book, 
And see the days of long ago, 
Floating and fleeting to and fro." 

End Tales of a Wayside Inn. 

il^i^lHE rain commenced to fall about noon, and 
we were in for a wet day. No one could 
y go out of doors, and even the favorite 
terrace was so deluged with salt spray and 
mist, that it was quite unsafe. 

The professor was very well, and seemed to enjoy 

the glooniy down-pour. 

[119] 




I20 Longfellozv V^isits Jules Janin. 



I was visibly remiiidoJ of his exquisite poem, 
and said softly to myself : 

" The day is cold, and dark and dreary." 

He interrupted me : 

" You are trying to flatter me," said he, smiling ; 
"still you must know that that \a one of my favorite 
poems." 

I continued to repeat a portion, until he looked 
up with a quick sense of humor, and said : 

" I know the lines !" After that we all laughed, 
and there were no more poetic quotations. 

After lunclieon we again assembled in the draw- 
ing-room, and commenced a talk and discussion on 
things in general. 

Longfellow is a charming conversationalist, and 
it was peculiar that while he spoke, with the greatest 
beauty and ease, seven languages, he never inter- 
larded a word from one tongue into a conversation 
held in another. If English, it was all English, with 
beautiful round phrases, and the choicest of words. 
If necessary to use one of the many expressions that 



Longfellow Visits Jules Janifi. 121 

have become familiar to the Anglo-Saxon, he even 
then translated it immediately, which gave an ade- 
quate idea of his exactitude in speech, and the value 
he set upon his mother tongue. 

He spoke of his visit to Paris as a student, and a 
call on Jules Janin. 

"I went up five flights of terrible stairs," he 
said, " and when you have seen some of those houses 
in the Quartier Latin (Latin quarter), you may imag- 
ine what those particular stairs were like. I rapped 
on a door, as there was no bell-rope visible, and a 
smiling maid snowed me into a very small ante- 
chamber, and from thence into a modest parlor, 
study and dining-room, all in one. 

" The greatest confusion reigned everywhere, and 
the master of the house, sitting among his household 
gods, was the greatest study of all. 

" He greeted me with French effusion, and a pen 
in his hand, freshly dipped in ink — turned around 
with such vivacity that a large drop splashed almost 
in my face. He half dragged me into a chair which 
he said looked uninviting, but was really very com- 



122 Longfelloiv Visits Jules Janin. 

fortable. He then called some one, with a clear 
voice. A very young lady carae into the apartment. 
She was introduced as Madame Janin, and I had 
barely time to look at her when he started np and 
said, ' Now that j^ou are come, we will have dinner.' 

" I did not see where wc would have it, bnt he 
smiled with delight, saying, ' Watch me,' and I did. 

" He swept everything off the table on the floor 
in the corner of the room, and with great glee an- 
nounced the banqueting board ready. 

" The maid came in, quickly laid the cloth, and 
before I realized it a steaming soup was on the table. 
He insisted on putting me in front of him, and 
raadame at his right. 

" The soup was a very excellent pot-au-feu, and' 
although a little bewildered by the rapid way in 
which things had come about, I was a hungry student, 
and did not need a second invitation. 

" Jules Janin was a very bright man, with a good 
disposition, and exceedingly gay. lie talked about 
Paris life and women in a way that amazed me, and 
all with an air of perfect propriety that was astound- 



Longfcllozv Visits Jules Janin. 123 

ing. The more surprised I was to see the meek 
young woman wlio s;it at his side, laugh with him 
and enjoy jokes that I could not listen to without 
blushing. He rattled them off with such infinite 
zest that I began to think something had been amiss 
with my education, as I seemed not to appreciate 
them in the right way. He was debonair and friendly 
with the madame, often stopping in the midst of his 
speech to pat her cheek, call her his dear little cab- 
bage, or smile upon her with an affection that was 
quite charming to see. She never spoke, and seemed, 
however, beyond this quite a nonentity. 

" Well, this dinner was one of startling surprises to 
me. I thought then that I enjoyed it, and I did — the 
eating part, but the looseness of the conversation 
scarcely compared favorably with what I had been 
accustomed to. Towards the dessert, he became 
more serious, and I listened to his really brilliant 
remarks with great pleasure. 

" He gave me much very useful information, and I 
have sinca seen how true wore hi^ sayings in one 
sense. When we had finished our coffee, he sug- 



124 Longfellow Visits Jules Janin. 

gested a stroll, and we went out into the streets. I 
said 'good-bje' to madame, aud wondered if she 
were going to be left alone in the house, but Mr. 
Jules, without the slightest compunction, tapped her 
on the shoulder in sign of adieu, and we started. 

" It was a beautiful night, and we walked a long 
way by the Seine, and near the great Notre Dame 
cathedral, whose towers were bathed in moonlight. 
The night was so charming that we continued our 
promenade for more than three hours, up and 
down. 

" Janin's character, while brilliant, was unsafe, or 
so it appeared to me — for he was shockingly leger or 
trivial, and his talk, while one moment witty and 
delightful, the next was reeking with some French 
story that completely horrified me. When I bade 
him good-bye I thought I would not willingly see 
him again. In fact, many years passed, when I met 
him once on the Boulevard of Paris. 

"He was but little changed, and again wanted me 
to dine with him. I was pleased to meet him, and 
my own experience in the meantime had taught me 



Longfellow Visits Jules yanin. 125 

that Frenchmen are not as bad at heart as they make 
themselves out to be. 

" Accepting his invitation, I found him in another 
apartment, more ample and splendid, perhaps, but 
still disorder was the reigning queen as before. 

" He introduced me to Madame Janin. 

" I, expecting to renew my acquaintance of former 
times, found to my astonishment that she had 
changed beyond recognition, and I tried in vain to 
recall her to my memory. I got through the form 
of saying good evening, however, and later on ex- 
pressed my surprise to find madame so different from 
what I remembered her. 

" ' When did you meet her,' said he, eagerly. 

" ' Why, let me see,' I pondered, ' I should think 
about nine or ten years ago, and since then she is 
wonderfully altered.' 

" * Great Heavens,' said he, seriously, * are you 
jesting ? did you think this the same one ? Who 
knows how many Madame Janin's there have been 
during that time?' 

" I looked up quietly. 



126 Longfellow Visits Jules jfanin. 

" ' And this one,' said I, coldly. 

" ' All, ha !' lie shrieked, with a shrewd laugh. 
'This time, mon cher, I have been caught my- 
self, and the real Madame Jules Janin stands before 
you ;' but, with a sober look, ' apropos of our little 
dinner in the Quartier Latin, nothing to my wife of 
that, I beg, otherwise your evening to-night might 
be less tranquil.' 

"I never saw him again," said Longfellow, 
" and I think that is one of the first and last French 
literary ' menages ' that I frequented. Janin 
thought it a fine joke, but I see no beauty or 
decency in such an irregular life, although he had 
many a laugh at what he called 'my puritanical 
innocence.' " 

It was easy to see that remembrances of this 
sort made a great impression on Mr. Longfellow, 
and while he always rendered full justice to the 
talent and attainments of the person, the character 
and daily habits of the man were to him a special 
study. He could not, with his severe puritanical 
ideas, accept or form any intimacy with one whose 



Longfellow Visits Jules Janin. 127 

life was made up of condensed experience in vice, 
and the careless way of living day after day in the 
same unhealthy moral atmosphere that usually 
falls to the lot of men of letters, especially in 
Paris. 

Jules Janin died some years ago, and later the 
"real" madame followed him. He was really 
" caught," as he said, although his wife was so clever 
that she revenged all of her predecessoi-s, and was 
fond enough of Jules to write (so the wicked world 
says) many of his most renowned criticisms. He 
never left her alone in the evening with a careless 
pat on the cheek, but almost begged permission to 
go out, and in spite of his former license he really 
became " regular." 

I told this to the poet. 

" Yes," he quickly said, " all is right, with one 
exception. 

" I don't believe that madame ever wrote a line 
of his woi'ks, as he was quite clever enough to do 
all, and more, than he ever did, himself." 

That speech was so like Longfellow. Althougli 



I2S Longfelloiv Visits Jules Janin. 



he could not admire his character, and the man was 
dead, he would still do him justice in his heart, and 
spoke out in his defense with his rare honesty and 
beautiful love of truth. 

Being on the subject of writers he got back to 
poets, and he spoke of Swinburne. 

" I must admire such an avalanche of passionate 
verse," said he, " but I am no way affected by his 
fiery writings. 

" The man is undoubtedly a remarkable character 
in his way, but, must I confess it ? it is a way that I 
do not like. His words seem to me to breathe forth 
a pestilential fire, as impetuous as Yesuvius and as 
fatal, and on reading one has still ringing in their 
ears the clash of natures that rage against each other, 
and the inhannonious din that accompanies such 
energetic poetry. 

" Some of the descriptions are fine, and very 
vivid, but the whole leaves my soul in turmoil and 
wearies me beyond expression. 

" How different is Byron, who, while the incar- 
nation of voluptuous verse, still offends in a sweeter 



Longfellow Visits Jules Jajiin. 129 

manner and often soothes while he disturbs. I can- 
not commend him entire," said lie, quickly, " neither 
has he the right to wholesale condemnation ; but, 
where one can choose many passages of equal beauty 
and intense emotional quality, it is easy to leave 
the rest alone, although the grade of passion is 
equal, in expressing them both, while the thought 
and reading are infinitely less pure, and different one 
from the other. 

" In all other poets of volcanic attributes this one 
great quality is ambiguous ; in Byron it is almost a 
charm, and then too he was Byron. 

" Of Dante and Shakespeare," he continued, " I 
will not speak. You know all men have their idols, 
they are mine." 



CHAPTER IX. 



LONGFELLOW WITH HIS GRANDCHILD. 

" I have you fast in my fortress 
And will not let you depart, 
But put you down in tlie dungeon 
In the round tower of my heart. 
And there will I keep you forever; 
Yes, forever, and a day. 
Till the walls shall crumble to ruin 
And moulder in dust away." 

The Children's Houk. 

" O child! O new-born denizen 
Of life's great city, on tliy head 
The glory of the morn is shed 
Like a celestial benison ! 
Here at the portal thou dost stand, 
And with thy little hand 
Thou openest the mysterious gate 
Into the Future's undiscovered land." 

To A Child. 

" ' Strike the sails !' King Okf said; 

'Never shall men of mine take flight; 
[130] 



Loiigfclloiv zvith his Grandchild. 131 

Never away from battle I fled I 
Never away from my foes, 
Let Gofl dispose 
Of my life iu the figlit.' " 
Zing Olaf's War Horse. —Tales Wayside Inn. 



a^_^^ IHE family party was complete, and after 
^\M jS^ breakfast the balcony was full of bright 
2/^!^[ faces. Everybody appeared in the best 
of health and spirits, and even baby in 
his carriage crowed with joy and juvenile ecstasy. 

Mrs. Dana, " Edith," is his mother. She retains 
the same beautiful features that lent such a charm 
to her babyhood, and the " little curl that hung in 
the middle of her forehead," has retired with 
womanly dignity to join her siBter locks on either 
side of her winsome face. She has violet-blue eyes, 
a skin of cream and roses, a dainty, shapely nose, a 
most lovable mouth, and fine masses of ashen blonde 
hair, that undulate away from the temples and are 
crowned by a glistening braid. 

She is extremely vivacions and fond of argu- 
ment. Mr. T. G. Appleton has left his pebbles to 
join us, and his advent is always welcome. 



132 Longfellow with his Grandchild. 

I never knew a man more thoroughly original 
than Mr. Appieton, and whatever he says is just 
characteristic of himself. His fund of anecdotes is 
inexhaustible, and each day his clever sayings and 
ingenious reflections are tempered with wholesome 
humor. Mrs. Dana always answers " Uncle Tom " 
back, as Mr. Appieton is called, and many bright 
flashes of esprit are the result. 

The poet looks on amusedly, lovingly, and with 
an enjoyment that is undeniable. He rarely inter- 
rupts, but when referred to as umpire gives a gra- 
cious decision, that instead of settling the matter in 
full throws an entirely new light on the subject, and 
also throws both parties off the track. 

This wary and dexterous way of answering a 
question is one of the professor's great points, or 
" coups," as the French would say. From being an 
innocent umpire, he becomes, with one of his adroit 
remarks, a master in the art of drawing others out. 

The professor's face is a study, while those im- 
promptu word skirmishes are going on. 

Whether the subject be grave or gay, he listens 



Longfellow with his Grandchild. 133 

with the same seriousness, and his face glows with 
vigilance and watchful interest. He seems like a 
general at the head of his forces, and only by the 
color that faintly comes and goes in his cheeks, and 
the quick changing light of his flashing eye, can one 
discover that he is at all moved. 

He reminded me forcibly of the late King Victor 
Emanuel of Italy. 

At a review of many thousand troops given out- 
side the famous arena of Milan, a few weeks previous 
to the first and welcome visit of the German emperor 
to Italy, in 1875, I had an opportunity of watching, 
during an hour, the great soldier king, the head of 
the house of Savoy. How magnificently he sat his 
horse, and with what royal grace and favor did he 
look upon an army that is the honor and pride of 
Italy. It was during the mock cavalry charge that 
the king was to me perfectly fascinating. The 
men rushed forward with such force and vigor that 
numbers of poor fellows were unhorsed, and the cry 
of " nomo a terra " (men to earth) rang with too 



134 Longfellow with his Grandchild. 

great frequency upon the air to realize that it was 
only a make-believe battle. 

His Majesty the King never moved a muscle, 
but his glance ran like lightning along the lines, 
and the bronzed face, although set with a terrible 
composure, yet glowed with color and interest. Not 
a sound escaped his lips, nor did the long ends of 
his waxed mustache betray the slightest nervous 
motion. With calm, superb mien he sat and gazed 
upon a sight that would have moved most men, 
his face only betrayed the kingly pride and adaman- 
tine composure that he possessed in so eminent a 
degree. 

His flashing eye pierced to the farthest extent of 
the Piazza d'Armi, always accompanied with the 
same marvelous quietness of feature. The white- 
gloved hand never wavered as it loosely held the 
rich bridle-rein, and during the whole of the charge, 
he never moved from his graceful position. 

The royal saddle-cloth, with its broidered corners 
and fringed edges, was held down with such firmness 
that one would have thought it a part of the trap- 



Lotig fellow with his Grandchild. 135 

pings and paraphernalia of a warrior cast in bronze 
rather than a breathing embodiment of a real, live 
king. One forgot his person in looking at his rojal 
head, military tenue, and martial bearing. 

He was every inch a soldier, and the great gen- 
eral at the head of his troops. They say that no one 
ever sat a horse as did Victor Emanuel, and certainly 
I shall never forget how I saw him that day, the 
fierce Italian sun pouiing down on his gilded helmet, 
the large Piazza d'Armi covered with the brilliant 
and magnificently-trained army, and the clouds of 
dust thickening the air almost as with the smoke of 
great cannonading. 

Who can wonder that the son of Carlo Alberto 
was adored by his people ; that while " II Re 
Galantuomo " was all that was kingly and royal, he 
was loved so much the more as a man, because the 
brave soldier came first in the hearts of his subjects ? 

Those who see United Italy to-day realize the 
great work accomplished by a man who, while never 
forgetting that the blue blood of a long-lined ancestry 
coursed through liis veins, fought with the ardor of a 



136 Longfellow with his Grandchild. 

oomraon soldier. He endured toil and hardships, 
and in the thickest of the fight mingled freely the 
royal vesture with the modest uniform of the peasant. 
Together the sabers clashed that ransomed a people 
from the oppressor's power, and purchased a unity 
that shows to-day how greater than any other 
European nation is the progress of modern Italy. 
Besides being a most honest man, the king was one 
of such wondrous personal fascination that every one 
of his people who came in contact with him left his 
presence a firmer adherent, a passionate adorer, and a 
most loyal subject forevermore. Such was the man 
who governed with honesty and simplicity, with 
heart and brain, and who merited the title of " The 
Honest King " (II Re Galantuomo). 

I have often thought of him, and the expression 
on his face that day. Physically there was not the 
slightest resemblance between the two, yet Long- 
fellow had the same look of conscious power, with 
complete control of his features, and the skilled and 
modest composure that so beautifully becomes the 
truly great. 



Longfellow with his Grandchild. 137 

I think the poet is generally happiest in the 
morning. It is a sort of pleasurable omen when the 
night has passed well, and to the affectionate inquiries 
after his general health everybody responds, showing 
how deep his welfare lies in their hearts. 

It is a touching thing to hear the tender inquiries 
framed by his daughters, and see how they hang, 
with rapt attention, on every word he says. 

The morning greeting is invariably, from him, a 
fatherly kiss on the forehead, then he slides his arm 
around his daughter's waist, while the little questions 
that make up the sum total of home interest are 
asked and answered with a sweet gravity and serious- 
ness that is perfectly charming to witness. Any 
playful badinage that may be indulged in only adds 
another charm to this sympathetic picture, and one 
can imagine how truly delightful it is to see a united 
family thoroughly ^'' en rapporV with each other. 
Let me see, how many were we? First, there was 
the poet, and Mr. T. G. Appleton, Mr. and Mrs. 
Dana, Mr. Craig, Mr. Nathan Appleton, Miss Annie 
Longfellow, Miss Hale, myself and baby. His car- 



Longfellow with his Grandchild. 



riage, at the farthest end of the piazza, was carefully 
tended by nurse, but seeing the company, he began a 
series of vigorous outcries, and intimated that he had 
been neglected far too long. 

The poet arose and went quickly up to him. 
Master Richard knew who was coming, and com- 
menced crowing lustily, one of those eff routed 
juvenile invitations to be taken up and petted. The 
favored one was the professor, and when he neared 
the baby carriage the dear thing put up its soft white 
hands, and almost sprang into grandpapa's arms. 

He, nothing loth, took him up witli all a mother's 
gentleness, and held the dainty bundle close against 
his breast. 

It was a beautiful sight to see the old poet 
cradling his grandchild in his arms. The tender 
flesh of the young, contrasting its softness with the 
mature coloring of the elder, with the diminutive 
fingers tearing in and out the sire's snowy beard, and 
the curling dark locks of baby, finer than gossamer 
or cobwebs, mingling their dainty treasure with the 
bard's silvered hair. This formed a picture too 



Longfellow with his Grandchild. 139 



touching to be unremarked. Every moment tlio 
baby's deep eyes would discover some new wonder 
in grandpa's face, and with persistent cooing the 
little hands would travel up and down the poet's 
features, as only such mites of hands could travel, 
with infancy's royal prerogative of license, and right 
of way. His face lit up with a beautiful smile, 
while the dainty creature caressed him. Ah ! how 
much a baby can say without speaking — and Long- 
fellow imderstood, in the finest sense of the word, 
the smallest wish of the little fellow. He would not 
let him go, and baby caroled on, happy, so happy, 
and seemed as unwilling to depart as grandpa was to 
have him. Finally Mrs. Dana came forward and 
remonstrated, saying: 

"Now, papa, you have been a dear baby tender, 
but I know you have had enough, and he will tire 
you out. Pray let me take him, or let nurse look 
after him, you have held him so long," the last with 
a piteous little accent. 

The poet looked up gravely, saying : 

" Why, Edith, when you were little, I used to 



I40 Longfellow with his Grandchild. 



hold you hours and hours, and it never seemed too 
much. So it is with your baby. I keep him fast in 
my arms, and almost fancy it is you yourself, a little 
thing helpless as he, and claiming all of my attention. 
You know how I love babies. Now do let him 
stay." 

Another tug at his beard by the child, a frantic 
juvenile dash, a crow, and peculiar shout of laughter, 
followed by various vigorous movements, quite de- 
cides mamma. 

She is inexorable. Baby has to go, for she will 
not tire her papa out, and he, never thinking of him- 
self, would hold him till midnight. 

Longfellow sighed, and with infinite reluctance 
yielded uj) his beautiful grandson to the legitimate 
tutelage, and settling back into his chair, the old ex- 
pression of quietness stole over his face. 

The morning was already half finished, and baby's 
departure was the signal for a stir among us. 

The poet took the initiative, and asked what 
everybody thought of doing. 

Some would go yachting, others had visits. Miss 



Longfellow with his Grandchild. 141 

Annie quite counted on her daily one hour sea-bath, 
and wild horses would not keep Mr. T. G. Appleton 
now from painting on his pebbles. 

At last some one asked the professor his plans for 
the day, and he said : 

" I think madame," turning to me, " would like 
to see something of Nahant and our surrounding 
country. I had thought of showing her Lynn, and 
if agreeable, we can take this afternoon for the visit. 
There is a fresh breeze, and I, myself, would enjoy 
getting a breath of it, while the day is so fine." 

Of course, anything proposed by the poet was 
received from the onset with perfect favor, and it 
was decided that Michael would have the victoria 
ready by two, sharp, when we were to start. 

Wo then dispersed, tha professor to his apartment 
over the terrace, Mr. Appleton to his pebbles, Mr. 
Dana to the city, one here, another there, until 
luncheon would again summon such as were visible 
to the repast that evidently tried even Webster's 
powers of definition. 



CHAPTER X. 



THE REAL STORY OF HYPERION". 



** O, scorn me as tliou wilt, still, still will I love thee; and 
thy name shall irradiate the gloom of my life, and make the 
waters of Oblivion smile! And the name was no longer Iler- 
mione, but was changed to Mary; and the student 
Hieronymus — is lying at your feet! O, gentle lady, 
' I did iiear you talk 
Far above singing; after you were gone, 
I grew acquainted with my heart, and searched 
What stirred it so! Alas! I found it love.' " 

Hypekion, end chap. VIII. 

"Tell me, my soul, why ait thou restless? Why dost 
thou look forward to the future with such strong desire ? 
The present is thine, — and ti)e past, — and tlie future shall 
be. O, that thou didst look forward to the great hereafter 
with half the longing wherewith tiiou longest for an earthly 
future, — which a few days at most will bring thee! To the 
meeting of the dead as to tlie meeting of the absent! Tliou 
glorious Spirltdand! O, tiiat I could behold thee as thou 
art, — the region of life, and light and love, and the dwelling- 
place of those beloved ones whose being has flowed onward, 
[142] 




The Real Story of Hyperion. 143 

like a silver clear stream into the solemn-sounding main, into 
the Ocean of Etti-nity." 

Hyperion, chap. II., book III. 

'ip^I^^jIIE poet ■ is in good health to all outward 
?))^i appearances, but he eats little, almost 
nothing, and at luncheon I dared remon- 
strate, as his breakfast had been one but in 
name. He smiled faintly and said : 

" Most people have a famous appetite at the sea- 
shore, but I never had. I think that the very sight 
and sound of it constitute sufficient nourishment. I 
love the ocean, and my soul is tilled with something 
infinitely more satisfactory than the bread and meat 
of daily life. I feel a sense of completeness when in 
sight and sound of it, that I realize nowhere on land. 
I never tire of its strong, healthful breezes, and life- 
giving properties. Then, too, I love to think that it 
does me good, in a moral sense, and yon know that 
must in the end be also of great physical benefit." 

" Dear master," said I quickly, " if the sea 
soothes you, it must be good, but I cannot imagine 
that morally you would need its influence." 



144 T^f^^ Real Story of Hyperion. 

The rare, irresistible smile that I had so often 
seen came across his lips, and he said, 

" I should hate to wait until I positively needed 
its influence ; but we are all mortal, and I love to 
take the good where I find it, and above all, not to 
flee an}' teaching that may come, whether of voice, 
mind or current. To me the sea hath ' a thousand 
tongues,' all speaking in praise of a higher power, 
and a life to come that touches the realms of the 
infinite." 

His speech almost saddened mo, and observing 
it, he said quite gayly, 

" You must not look so serious. We shall gaze 
at the ocean, on our way to Lynn, when it seems 
quite a different affair from the puissant monster 
that rages up and down whole continents, and I 
promise you not one ' of the thousand tongues ' 
shall accost you unless you yourself first give the 
signal. I see that our equipage is ready, and if 
you like we will start at once." 

The open victoria stood waiting, and the horses — 
magnificent black, spirited animals, gave a little 



The Real Story of Hyperion. 145 

neigh of pleasure, as if proud of the honor of carry- 
ing the great poet. 

The daj was heavenly, and never have I seen the 
professor in better spirits, if I may except the 
slight tone of sadness that occasionally overcast his 
fine countenance. He was in perfect health, and 
determined to make the best of such propitious 
weather. 

It seemed impossible to imagine him other than 
a young man. His voice was strong and full, and 
had a happy ring that expressed contentment and 
success, and he spoke of even indifferent things in a 
way that w^as really charming. 

As we neared the sort of road bridge that con- 
nects Lynn with Nahant. he ordered the coachman 
to drive slowly, so tliat he could " take in more 
full}'," as he said, " the beautiful panorama that 
stretched out before us." 

And in truth it was beautiful. 

To the right, a small basin gave the idea of an 
inland lake rather than the sea, and an enormous 
black rock in the center called " Egg Ro<fk," dark- 



146 TJlc Real Story of Hyperion. 

ened the water for a mile around. To the left of the 
embankment the breakwater formed a sluggish pool 
filled with weeds, and floating bits of bark and wood, 
and this umddy pond gradually grew less dark, as 
the waters went out to the sea. 

"We looked to the right as the prettiest part of 
the picture, and, musing, the poet spoke, 

" Do you see that in the very edge of this basin a 
thousand little eddies come and go, rush upon the 
sands, then recede with a merry chattering out into 
the great waters, and then, back again \ Well ! it 
was just in sight and sound of this place that I 
wrote my poems, ' The Secret of the Sea,' and ' Pal- 
ingenesis.' Each cime I jmss, I realize all of the 
old fascination for the spot, I hear again in my cars 
the same voices, and see those little fiendish waves 
dance back and forth with their endless rhythm and 
mystic chant. 

" Look does it not seem a trick, the cunning 

way with which those white waves get back and 
sparkle over the sands, and their merciless hissing 



TJie Real Story of Hyperion. 147 

voices, as the current takes them out again to the 
sea ? I know them so well." 

I followed his eye and voice, and indeed, I could 
appreciate just the feeling that he described. 

They seemed like old friends that beckoned and 
nodded to him, and at the same time kept repeating 
their endless good-bye until the carriage took us 
further and further away from the spot. 

As we neared Lynn, I felt more in confidence 
with the professor, and we began talking of things 
that we had seen abroad. 

The poet discoursed delightfully on his travels, 
and as we drove through the shady avenues of the 
old town, his voice mingled itself with the cadence 
of the sea, and the soft murmur of the summer air, 
that came through the branches of the lindens, 
making a sort of ^olian music, that was in perfect 
harmony with the scene. I can sec the grand old 
man now, reposing against the cushions of the car- 
riage, with his fine, frank face glowing with a beau- 
tiful carnation, the shapely head thrown back, and 
the snowy hair, silky and soft as spun glass, lying 



148 The Real Story of Hyperion. 



against the back of the seat, and contrasting vividly 
witli the somber Iiue of the upholstery. 

Mantled in his cloak, that gracefully covered his 
sloping shoulders, he had a pose of consummate ease, 
and the while talked quite unreservedly, now and 
then turning to me with a sweet smile, and ever and 
anon folding or clasping his hands, that otherwise 
lay quite still and motionless in his lap. 

He had never before been so friendly, and I 
longed to improve that oc(;asion to make him speak 
of himself. I had no morbid curiosity to know the 
slightest intimate detail of his life, but merely wished 
to hear him describe, in his own rare way, something 
relating entirely to his early travels in Europe. 

Fate favored me. Turning a corner brusquely, 
we came in sight of the sea and a bit of scenery that 
caused him to exclaim : 

" That reminds me of Switzerland. Have you 
ever seen Interlachen ?" 

" Yes," said I, eagerly, " but tell me about it. 1 
would rather know what you think of it. Were you 
there — when, alone — and — " he interrupted me sadly. 



The Real Story of Hyperion. 149 

" No, not alone, but with friends ; Mr. Appleton 
and his party." Then he stopped. 

" No half confession," said I, gayly. " I am sure 
you are thinking of something very important, for 
your face looks grave and older, and I hear a half 
sigh coming from beneath your cloak. Pray tell me 
all about it." 

He looked up affectionately, and patted my hand, 
saying, at the time : 

" 1 don't know why I should speak to you, you 
are such a child, and this was a long time ago, but — 
do you not know," hesitatingly, " Mr. Appleton was 
an old acquaintance, and he introduced me to the 
party I mentioned, that I saw at Interlachen. I 
suppose something irresistible drew me there, for 
I had been traveling in another direction, and did 
not intend going that way, but they insisted, and I 
followed where Fate or any enterprising spirit led." 

" Yes," I interrupted, " but the party you met, 
confess, were they all gentlemen, no ladies ?" 

He looked up, gravely. " No," said he, " there 



1 50 The Kail Story of Hyperion. 

were some ladies : one was Mr. Appleton's sister," a 
pause, drawing in his breath, " ray late wife." 

His voice deepened in feeling, and I lamented 
my own stupidity. 

" Pardon me, dear master," I said, hesitatingly, 
'• I did not know — I could not have imagined that 
I was nearing such a subject. I am sure you will 
never forgive me." 

" There is nothing to forgive," said he, quietly. 
" To-day I am filled with memories of the past, and 
I am glad to talk with you, who seem to appreciate 
my feeble efforts to entertain you." Assuring me 
that '• it did him good to speak," he continued, tell- 
ing all about his travels ; he said : " I went to Inter- 
lachen very heavy-hearted, and left it in almost the 
same state of sadness." Stopping suddenly he said : 
" But I am telling you all this. Have you never 
read Hyperion ?" 

I confessed that I had, but so long ago that I 
remembered it only faintl3\ He looked at me curi- 
ously, and said, with some satisfaction and a half 
sigh : 



The Real Story of Hyperio7i. 151 

" That is well, for the real ending was different, 
as you will now know. After the death of my wife 
in Rotterdam, I left Holland and traveled all over 
the Continent. In Switzerland I met the Appletons, 
who were voyaging for pleasure, Mr. Appleton, my 
wife's father, was very amiable. We were going to 
walk over the mountains, but he said : ' Why should 
you ? There is one seat in our carriage, and that is 
at Mr. Longfellow's disposal.' He turned to me 
with so hospitable a manner that I immediately 
accepted his invitation and sat vis-a-vis to Miss Fanny 
Appleton. They were so delicate and kind towards 
me that mj' heart warmed instinctively, and in their 
society one had little time for sad hearts and faces. 
The rest," said he, sweetly, " you know." 

Not content with what the poet had said, I went 
still further and begged to ask him a question. 

He considered, and said, " that if it were not too 
dreadful " he would answer it with pleasure ; at the 
same time he had anything but an unamiable look. 

Remembering that he had been twice married, I 
asked him if he believed in affinities, and if he had 



152 The Real Story of Hyperion. 

jiny warning or idea when he met Miss Appleton 
that she would ever be his wife ? I said, " Did you 
love her at first sight ?'* 

He started, as if of all questions that was the one 
he least expected to hear, jet said to me with quiet 
feeling and simplicity : 

" You have asked — 1 will answer. Love comes 
in various forms. I had no thought, then, that she 
was other than a lovable and lovely woman, and it 
was only some yeara afterward that I knew she was 
all my world, and I began to hope for that which 
Heaven after granted me. After our second meeting 
we corresponded, and later she consented to take me 
for her husband. 

" Ko," he continued, " Fate is sometimes so un- 
kind to let us not even dream of a happiness that is 
in store. Could I have realized then, that the future 
held one gleam of brightness, I think it would have 
altered my character in many respects. Still, my 
bitter complainings were all before my visit to Inter- 
lachen, and since then " 

"Since then," I repeated, with hushed voice, 



The Real Story of Hyperion. 153 

" you have been blessed beyond the lot of ordinary 
mortals, and it has been also your good fortune to 
help to make others happy in the world, which is a 
rare joy, and one for which Heaven had selected yon, 
as her special and gifted servant." His face glowed 
with a sublime faith, and lie said with simple rever- 
ence : 

" Yes, God is good !" 

Back through the hushed town, back by the 
stirring trees and murmuring ocean, we retraced our 
way. The poet, after his long conversation, taken 
up, of course, at different intervals, kept very quiet 
until we reached home ; and seeing him wrapped in 
thoughts of the past, nothing could have Induced me 
to break the stillness of his musings. 

His fair, aristocratic face outvied the tranquillity of 
nature in its repose, and over the calm features was 
drawn a fine vail of melancholy that sat upon his 
countenance like the mist that partially conceals the 
dawn, and hid this wonderful nature, that was sacred 
in its communion with memories of the past. 

Before sleeping I re-read " Hyperion," and many 



154 



The Real Story of Hyperion. 



tilings that had seemed sad and strange in the pro- 
fessor, were explained in the experience of Paul 
Fletnming. The book is really a history of his own 
life, and his ideal woman, that in the last chapter he 
bids adieu to forever as Fanny Asburton, became in 
after years Mrs. Longfellow, nee Fanny Appleton. 




CHAPTEE XI. 
Longfellow's love of flowers. 

In all places then, and in all seasons 
Flowers expand, flowers expand their light and soul- 
like wings, 
Teaching us by most persuasive reasons, 
How akin they are to human things." 

Floweks. 

" ' My Lord has need of these flow'rets gay,' 
The reaper said, and smiled ; 
' Dear tokens of the earth are they, 
Where he was once a child. 

** ' They shall all bloom in fields of light 
Transplanted by my care. 
And saints, upon their garments white 
These sacred blossoms wear.' " 

The Reaper and the Flowers. 



ONGFELLOW is very fond of jflowers. 
^ l^#^ Besides the garden's generous contribu- 
^^^-^^^^ tion, there are quantities sent to the poet 



by admiring friends, and the house is 

never without them. He loves them all, from the 

[155] 



156 Longfellow s Love of Flowers. 

tiny flow'j-et that blooms modestly by the wayside, to 
the gorgeous blossom that commands the attention 
usually paid the pretentious. Mr. Longfellow pre- 
fers violets, roses and lilies, although he rarely passes 
a flower-bed, or a dainty thing growing among the 
grasses, but he stops affectionately and plucks some 
leaf or bud. 

I remember last Spring, at Cambridge, a stroll 
we took up and down the old walk. The trees, dis- 
mantled of their snowy winter burden, were already 
many-leaved, and the lawn had a velvety appearance. 
The whole front of the garden facing Brattle street 
has a thick hedge or wall of bushes. These were 
all in bud, and on the oldest branch there was one 
spray of white lilac in full blossom. The poet 
uttered an exclamation of pleasure as he saw it, and 
with native gallantry plucked it and gave it me. 

" You must keep it," said he naively, "'tis the 
first one this season. I love Spring flowers, and I 
particularly love the old-fashioned lilacs, yet they 
make me sad," 

His was an impressionable nature, and when 



Longfellow's Love of Flowers. 157 

with his friends, he gave unrestrained utterance to 
his thoughts. He was unusually quiet that morning, 
and I said, 

" Cher maitre, why do these early flowers sad- 
den you ?" 

He looked at me earnestly, and said, 
" Whenever I take up one I ask myself, ' Will I 
live to see another Spring-time?' I have a strange 
idea, that if they welcome me with their first smile 
I shall not die that year, hut live just in sight of 
another May. Promise me," this eagerly, "that 
when I am gone you will place a branch of these 
lilacs on my grave. Flowers are my oldest friends." 
I was too touched not to promise as he wished, but 
I scolded him playfully for his sad thoughts, and 
refused to encourage such melancholy. To-day he 
had the old look when he saw the fresh flowers in 
the room, and at the first sign of sadness, I said 

gajly, 

" Dear master, pas de tristesse^ these are not 
lilacs." Before ho could answer Mr. Nathan came 
in with a mysteriously-covered parcel. A faint 



158 Longfellow's Love of Flowers. 

something gleaming from under the fine tissue 
paper, suggested a bouquet or cut blossoms. Imag- 
ine what they were % Pink pond lilies, not the 
white or " yellow water lily," spoken of in Hiawatha, 
but the veritable flower in pink. I think I never 
sa\v anything so beautiful, and my astonishment was 
as great as my admiration. Professor Longfellow 
was more enthusiastic over them than any one, and 
he expressed himself in the warmest terms. Mr. 
Nathan explained that they had been brought orig- 
inally from South Africa by a sea-captain, and trans- 
planted near Sandwich, Cape Cod. They grew up 
almost white, but of late, with care, they have 
deepened into a lovely rose-pink. Strange to say, 
they are side by side with the white lilies, and never 
have propagated with them. They remain beauti- 
fully and distinctly pink, and each year become more 
lovely. 

" They are not luxuriant," said Mr. Appleton, " and 
are found only in this one pond near Boston. It is a 
pity they are so scarce, as they would speedily be- 
come the ' grcmd mode.'' " 



Longfellow s Love of Flowers. 1 59 

"Thej are exquisite enougli," responded Mr. 
Longfellow, " to become the fashion — they are in- 
spiring, and these are particularly lovely." Mr. 
Nathan interrupted : 

" They inspired Miss Jewett. She wrote a beau- 
tiful poem about them. Perhaps," turning to me, 
" you will also express your feelings in verse," 

"But I never write poetry" — I objected. 

" Kever mind," said Mr. l^athan, " I dare you to 
this time. Every lady that sees these flowers protests 
an immediate inspiration, and you surely must try 
your hand." 

Mr. Longfellow was quite interested and looked 
anxiously on, but I expostulated. 

" I assure you I " 

"No," said Mr. Nathan, "I dare you. You 
must do it." 

" I cannot ignore a dare," said I hastily, " but 
poetry — it seems dreadful to dash off anything in that 
fashion." 

Mr. Longfellow interposed. " Try," said he ; 



i6o Longfelloiv s Love of Flowers. 

adding, amusedly, " you know a great deal of poetry 
is made to order ; why should you not succeed?" 

" Yery well," said I, " but give me a flower ; I can- 
not write without that." Mr. Nathan gravely handed 
me the lily — the poet smiled good-humoredly, and 
said, " courage," while I withdrew to the little library. 
Three-quarters of an hour later I came out with a 
faded blossom but a flushed face. In my hand was 
the following : 

A PINK POND LILY. 

1. 

From far Ngami's golden shore 
A gallant captain, passing o'er 

The river long and wide, 
In a lonesome pool beyond the bank, 
Mid waters dark and sea-weed dank 

A blushing flower espied. 

2. 

Then far from Afric's fevered smile 
Tiie lily fair did lie beguile, 

And root and branch uptore. 
He bore it in his ship of state 
To newer land, to newer fate. 

Upon Cape Cod's lone shore. 



Longfelloiv s Love of Flozvers. i6i 

3. 
The flower drooped in its stranger bed, 
Fretted, and drooped, and hung its head, 

To weep by day and niglit: 
And when it reached Columbia fair. 
To find itself transplanted there, 

Its color fled — 'twas white. 



O pallid flower, with petals cold, 
O lovely form, with heart of gold, 

Mine, mine thou art in truth ; 
"With wealth of sadness in thy face, 
Each leaf of white symbolic grace, 

Fair emblem of our youth. 

5. 
As by the quiet meadow-side 
A mirrored lake tliy form doth hide 

A world of love unsought, 
So with thy comrades to and fro, 
The night-winds proud to thee shall blow 

The charm with which they're fraught. 

6. 

At last, with earthly care oppressed 
The shades of evening bid thee rest, 

A pale, unworldly elf. 
The soft caress, love's wayward charm, 
Can ne'er to thee bring blight or harm, 

Thou'rt love and life thyself. 



1 62 Longfellow s Love of Flowers. 



And when the waters grieving loud, 
With shadows dark and mist o'ercrowd 

Thy tender drooping crest, 
So night's great privilege will show 
To thee as to all flowers below 

Oblivion, peace, and rest. 



But shall thy Jiead in deatli be bowed 
Whose wealth of beauty, pure and proud, 

A crown of life desires. 
Thou liest to-night in pallid bier, 
Nor think'st to find enflamgd here 

Proud resurrection's fires. 



9. 

A broken heart doth sadly sleep, 
The secret all the lilies keep, 

The secret of thy flight; 
And then with bated breath they fold 
Thy petals white, thy heart of gold 

Wrapp'd in the cloak of night. 

10. 

Yet hark. Alectryon's trump doth call, 
Aurora's lights rose-tinted fall 

On morning's dawn, then sink. 
The stranger lily, once so white 
Comes blushing from her buried night 

Comes forth with petals pink. 



Longfellow s Love of Flowers. 163 

11. 

And so the legend now is told, 
About a flower with heart of gold 

That did her name forswear; 
And said "adieu " to robes of snow, 
With borrowed light to bloom and gloTf, 

A pink pond lily rare. 

Nahant, July, 1880. 

I gave up the poem. Mr. Longfellow with aston- 
ishment took it from me, and scanning it over, said 
quickly : 

" The fourth and fifth verses are as good poetry as 
most can write, but the rest — I" — hesitating — " you 
must not feel badly, but I should scarcely call this a 
poem. It is a poetic sketch, and something might be 
made of it. Let me have it and I will correct it, and 
show you where and why the changes are made," 

Mr, Nathan looked up quickly and said, " Two 
ladies have written on the same flower with totally 
different ideas. Who would have believed it ? Now 
the next person I dare " — 

" Nathan," hastily interrupted the poet, " I don't 
think you had better ' dare ' any one else to write 
poetry, although " — checking himself adroitly, " had 



164 Longfellow s Love of Flowers. 

you not done so, we would have missed madame's 
lines." 

" Oh ! I know what you were going to say," I 
spoke up quickly. " But forgive me, I promise never 
to do so any more." 

The poet looked happy again. 

" That is right," said he honestly, " I think there 
are other things that you can do better than to write 
poetry, although I shall correct this if you wish, and 
if you still insist on making verses, I shall be glad to 
help you any way in my power." 

Those were ray first and last lines made to order, 
but I let Mr. Longfellow correct my sketch to keep 
as a souvenir of a pink pond lily. 



CHAPTER XII. 

LONGFELLOW IN CONVERSATION. 

" Steadfast, serene, immovable, the same 
Year after year, tlirougli all tlie silent night, 
Burns on foievermore that quencliless flame, 
Shines on tliat unextinguishable light." 

The Lighthouse. 

*' Nothing useless is, or low; 

Each thing in its place is best; 
And what seems but idle show 

Streiigtiiens and supports the rest." 

Resignation. 

lALLS begin before luncheon, and the pro- 
^^ fessor is always the recipient of several 
each day. Here the visitors are usually 
old friends, or recent agreeable acquaint- 
ances, instead of the crowd of curious, and autograph 

seekers that hunt out the Craigie mansion, and be- 

[165] 




1 66 Longfellow in Conversation. 

tray themselves to the passers-by, in the shady 
avenues of Cr.mbridge. 

Strange to say, the conversation rarely turns on 
the subject of poetry. 

Longfellow rarely argues. "When he speaks, a 
fine sensibility marks his demeanor, and a certain 
self-respect that immediately gives dignity to the 
topic under discussion, and commands the instant 
attention of all present. The graces of his mind are 
such that every sentiment receives just appreciation, 
and before the thought finds expression his lips have 
already framed an admirable and appropriate speech. 

His language is strong, penetrating and beautiful, 
rarely fiowery, and devoid of useless words and re- 
dundant adjectives. Senseless phrases are never 
interlarded. 

He says the wittiest things without intention, and 
never stops to make a point in the midst of his 
speech. In things that need real condemnation his 
words are steel-pointed, and no barbed arrow ever 
went nearer the mark. He speaks with conviction, 
earnestness, and a certain eloquence as original as 



Longfellow in Conversation. 167 

fascinating. Whatever the subject, he attacks it 
boldly, honestly. 

He emjjloys no petty subterfuges of language to 
hide a real meaning. There are no fine speeches 
that cover a bad thought, or address themselves to 
what the world calls clever people. In politics, re- 
ligion, civil reform or the fine arts, he is equally at 
home in understanding and discussion. How in the 
world Longfellow finds time to make himself master 
of all subjects, is simply puzzling. He needs only to 
read to remember, but it seems to me that twenty- 
four hours' study a day for a life-time would never 
have sufiiced to acquaint him with all he knows, with- 
out this special intuitive gift of understanding. 

He does not need to turn a subject over in his 
mind many times, before a just conclusion is 
arrived at. 

This superhuman mental quality is rare to-day, 
and enjoyed, I think, in the highest sense by our 
great poet. It is not a question of being able to 
talk understandingly on general subjects, nor to crit- 
icise indiscriminately on every occasion, but to fabri- 



1 68 Longfelloiv in Conversation. 

cate, from proper material, the structure that will 
best hold your ideas and thoughts. It is easy to tear 
down, but difficult to build. Longfellow, like 
Leonardo da Vinci, is an architect of the soul, and 
the solid foundation laid by nature has received 
additional pillars of thought and education, and 
plans of self-sustaining power, that show forth, in 
their completeness, the overwhelming beauty of 
truth, and truthful culture in man. 

I doubt not that he could improvise, and the 
most noted of his lyrics show that beneath the 
shadow of the muse his heart has poured itself out 
in suddenly-inspired song, yet his speech has little of 
improvisation. It is more like the rounded utterance 
of one who has studied a subject deeply, and turned 
it over and over again in his mind. 

My attention was called to this fact from observa- 
tions made by his own family. 

At the conclusion of some of his remarks I have 
frequently heard one of his daughters say : 

" Wh.y, papa, how funny. I never heard you 
express yourself on that subject before, and certainly 



Loiigftiloiu in Conversation. 169 

not with such precision, and positive conviction ; 
you have been studying it up to surprise us." 

Then the poet wonki start liastilj, and with utter 
gravity and modesty disclaim all special study of the 
question, remarking, simply : 

" Have 1 not spoken of it before ? "Well, that is 
not strange — although of course I have thought 
about it often ; still, not being an ordinary topic, it 
has been but little in my way." 

On many questions the poet retains an obstinate 
silence. In vain does one try to draw him out. He 
h'stens with exquisite attention, but is cold, impas- 
sive and unyielding. No artifice of tlie calculating 
speaker can win from him tiie slightest sign of either 
approbation or disapproval. His manner is so posi- 
,:*:ive that one must needs be hardy indeed to ask his 
opinion when he does not venture a word. 

It is a great art to listen well — greater than that 
of speaking well. To those who have frequented 
men of letters and geniuses, it is refreshing to find a 
person who has no predilections in conversation, no 



£^ 



170 Lotigfellow in Conversation. 

hobbies to discuss, and who does not harp continually 
on one subject. 

I am not saying that Longfellow may not have 
one thought that is paramount to all others, and one 
ambition that the world knows has been gratified to 
its full. Poetry ever will be the god of his idolatiy. 
A person not knowing him would at once allow him 
to be a man of culture, although they would be at a 
loss from his speech to know in what particular line 
his talents lay. 

Whenever the conversation turns upon himself, as 
very often happens, he deftly draws attention to 
something else, but in a delicate way. Before one is 
aware, the subject gradually becomes less personal, 
and Longfellow directly appears pleased. 

He takes real and unaffected interest in the pur- 
suits of those who visit him, and when young people 
speak of what they are attempting to do in life, he 
questions them kindly and judiciously, never failing 
to encourage the fighter of life's battles to keep on 
in the good way. 

One does not often hear from his lips sweeping 



Lotigfellow in Conversation. 171 

denunciations of religions, sects, societies, or any pro- 
fession. If there be good in them, he is the first to 
speak of it, and if there be glaring faults, he tries to 
find an excuse, and expresses a hope for their future 
improvement and well-being. 

A man possessed of Longfellow's keen insight 
into human nature cannot ignore the fact that while 
much is beautiful, much, alas! is morally very ugly in 
the world. The outward sign may be all that is 
tempting, like those lovely flowers that grow in far- 
off lands, where creeping waters hide their roots, and 
a deadly poison is exhaled from their petals, instead 
of the rare perfume that one expects from an en- 
chanting exterior. 

Because it exists and is bad, he would not uproot 
every vestige of the plant, but rather, like Father 
Lawrence, would seek to find the good, although to 
man still unrevealed. 

The snows of many winters have silvered his hair, 
and he has had a great experience in life, yet withal, 
in face of his enormous instruction and still greater 



172 Longfellozv in Conversation. 

appreciation of the world, Longfellow is an optimist 
in the fullest sense of the word. 

Perhaps it is this love of truth, and enjoyment of 
truthful things, that has in so great a measure shaped 
his life, and rendered him the most simple and unaf- 
fected of nien ; while at the same time he is more 
sensitive than another, and peculiarly alive to the 
cominff in contact of an inharmonious nature. 

I have felt when lie was so tried. Without saying 
anything, one could see at once that some antag- 
onistic element had forced its presence upon liim, 
and he received at the same moment an instantaneous 
shock. He shivers mentally, and reminds one of a 
sensitive plant that, taken from its natural surround- 
ings, is transplanted^ to the wayside, and feels for the 
first time the chill, piercing blast, and cold discomfort 
of an uncongenial clime. I sometimes think so im- 
pressionable a nature a doubtful gift. 

Longfellow would have graced any century with 
his virtues, and even the " L'aureo trecento " (Golden 
Age) with his talent. 

Of the three great poets who are claimed by the 



Longfellow in Conversation. 173 

Century of Gold, Petrarch was, perhaps, the most 
strictly virtuous, Dante the most impetuous, and 
Boccaccio the most careless of the trio. Longfellow 
resembles them only in his rare gift of natural song, 
and will hand down to history's page the record of a 
pure and stainless life. 

Dante was reckless and lived a life of turmoil. 
The only pure affection he ever knew was the love of 
Beatrice, and that came to him when he had learned 
the value of a woman's smile. Boccaccio was vain, 
careless, but supremely gifted. Longfellow, on the 
contrary, has no vices, and lives out his exemplary 
life in the fear of God, beloved by man, and with 
exceeding tranquillity of mien. The world is better 
that he has lived in it. 



CHAPTER XIII. 

THE ORIGIN OF FISH CHOWDER. 

" To whom the student answered: Yes; 
All praise and honor ! I confess 
That bread and ale, home-baked, home-brewed, 
Are wholesome and nutritious food." 

" Forthwith there was prepared a grand repast," 

'* Then her two barn -yard fowls, her best and last, 
Were put to death at lier express desire, 
And served up with a salad in a bowl, 
And flasks of country wine to crown the whole." 

The Mokk of Casi-le Maggioke. — 
Tales op a Wayside Inn. 

OMEHOW to-day I feel quite strange, and 
alone. " Allons," I am already late. The 
sun has ah'eady covered everything out- 
side with a golden glow, and to be in the 
house at such a time is criminal. Donning a dress 
of soft white cashmere, trimmed with lace and 

fi-inge, I prepare to descend, and stop once again to 

[174] 




T]ie Origin of Fish Chowder. 175 

look in the glass. Reflectively, I say to myself, 
" White is becoming to blondes," and feeling ah-eady 
a little better in ray mind, I join the family, who are 
loitering, as usual, on tlie back terrace. 

" Why," said Mrs. Dana, quickly, " you look like 
a bride. What is it ?" 

" This is the anniversary of my wedding," said 
I, " and the first time that I have been alone on 
such a memorable occasion. But my husband must 
be ' en route ' for America ; he expected to sail 
about this date, and news must soon come." 

While I was yet talking, a servant brought me a 
dispatch. Thanks to Cyrus Field's Atlantic cable, 
one can talk across continents, and I read " Sail to- 
day in ' Gallia,' all well, love." This had been sent 
from Liverpool, and already my husband was on his 
way. The professor smiled pleasantly, and all 
wished him the safest of voyages. 

We talked on of different things and brought up 
the subject of the Boston Cadets, and a recent pleas- 
ant visit to the camp. The commanding officer, 
Colonel Hayes, was very polite, and we had an op- 



176 The Origin of Fish Chowder. 

portunity of seeing the " boys " near by as they 
came up from tlieir splendid drill, and passed in front 
of the colonel's tent. 

Tlie time passed away so quickly that it was late 
before we had even thought of leaving, and then, 
accompanied by the charming Miss Sarah Jewett 
and Miss Hayes, the colonel's sister, we finally left 
the pleasant green to go to Nahant proper, or rather 
to the poet's house, as we were all to dine with him. 

Wlieii we returned, he was loud in his praise of 
the cadets, and regretted that a slight cold had kept 
him in doors. You see, it was rather risky going so 
far, and being obliged to keep one's feet all of the 
time upon the wet ground, so soon after recent rain ; 
and the professor was very wise not to think of it. 
We sat down to-day, a jolly party, and I must say 
here, that one does not often get such dinners out- 
side Paris. Every day we had fish chowder by re- 
quest, but this evening there was a change. 

When the table was all ready and the guests were 
seated, Mr. T. G. Appleton raised his head and ex- 
plained, 



TJie Origin of Fish Chowder. i yy 

" To night our chowder is different ; instead of 
fish " 

'' It is ckm," interrupted the professor, with a 
grim little smile. 

" How did you know ?" said his brother-in-law 
quickly. 

" I did not know," said Longfellow ; " I only saw 
that you looked as if you were about to announce a 
matter of great moment, and by your partially desig- 
nating the dish, I thought it referred to a change in 
our favorite soup. Although not radical, it is a 
change. Gliowder is always cho\vder, but fish 
chowder is never clam." 

" I cannot understand," I broke in, " what it all 
means ; wliat is chowder, how is it made, and what 
language docs it speak ? who will tell me about it ?" 

Mr. T. G. Appleton looked up, and during the 
pauses of helphig his hungry guests, he said : 

" I will explain, and gladly." Even the professor 
looked hiterested, and Mr. Appleton began. 

Stop, before he speaks I must describe him. 
He has a portly form, tall, and well furnished. His 



178 The Origm of Fish Chowder. 

ejes are steady, dark, and tliey burn with a look at 
times that must be agony to the conscious man, for 
he certainly will get everything out of him, no mat- 
ter how much he might want to conceal. His face 
is strongly marked, with heavy brows, thick mus- 
tache, and an expression of such rare intelligence 
that an Italian after saying " astuzia " would give 
it np, for " astuzia " means shrewdness, and our ami- 
able host, besides possessing that quality, adds to it a 
world of natural wit and talent, aided by the most 
advantageous study of human nature that wide 
travel and a liberal education could possibly afford. 
Besides being a charming man in every way, he is 
kindliness itself, and the best story-teller one ever 
listened to. Whatever he talks about his way of 
putting it is refreshing, delightful, and altogether 
palatable. 

The professor looked brightly wide awake, and in 
answer to my asking "What is chowder?" Mr. Ap- 
pleton began. 

" Chowder," — he glances around — everybody is 
listening. 



The Origin of Fish Chowder. 179 

" Chowder," he repeats, daintily ladling out the 
savory soup, " is only good when made in private 
houses. At hotels it is watery and insipid, while 
the jBsh and chowder crackers are usually boiled to 
rags. The way to make it is this. The fish (cod or 
haddock) should be broken into large flakes, and 
boiled twenty minutes with plenty of salt pork and 
milk and chowder biscuits. The dish was probably 
obtained by New England fishermen from the French, 
who for two centuries have been catching and salting 
the cod, which is also immensely used in countries 
bordering on the Mediterranean. "When salted it is 
called ' haocalao.^ The ISTew England fishermen 
told their wives of this good and simple dish, and 
taught them how to make it. The women asked 
what it was called, and in reply were told that they 
had heard a good deal of a word like ' chowder.' 
The real word they had heard was chaudiere, not 
the thing itself, but the kettle in which it was 
cooked." 

Mr. Appleton looked around. 

This was the real reason, undoubtedly, why 



i8o The Origin of Fish Chowder. 

chowder was called chowder, and I was very glad to 
know the origin of the dish. 

In tlie midst of the talking and pleasant click of 
the champagne glasses the professor arose, and lift- 
ing his, said with grave ceremony, and tender grace, 

" ' Les absents ont toujours tort ' (the absent are 
always in the wrong), according to the French prov- 
erb, but to-day I beg an exception to the general 
rule in favor of my young friend, Signor Macchetta. 
This is the anniversary of his wedding day, and 
althougli he may not hear, I propose his life-long 
heal til and happiness, and that of my young guest, 
Madame, his wife. May he have a prosperous voy- 
age, and may the good ship ' Gallia ' bring back to 
our hospitable shores the loving husband and ever- 
welcome friend." 

Then there were shouts and happy speeches, con- 
gratulations without number, and of course, I was 
quite a heroine. One could not help feeling touched 
at the dear old poet's attention, and 1 noticed for the 
first time that the table was more than usually hand- 
some. Lovely flowers here and there covered the 



The Origin of Fish Chowder. i8i 

fine damask cloth, and some way the dinner partook 
more of a fete than an every-day affair. It had been 
so delicately managed, that I, least of all, was suspi- 
cious of what was going to happen when Professor 
Longfellow got up, but now tliat it was done, and 
done with sach grace, who would not have felt hon- 
ored and proud to have such a thoughtful friend ? 
All joined with equal good-will and sympathy in try- 
ing to make my anniversary a happy one. 

The night was so still that during the dinner we 
heard the first sound of the bells of Lynn borne 
across the waters, and I called to mind the poet's beau- 
tiful lines : 

" Oh, curfew of the setting sun ! O Bells of Lynn ! 
Oh, requiem of the dying day! O Bells of Lynn! 

From tlie dark belfries of yon cloud, cathedral wafted, 
Your sounds aerial seem to float, O Bells of Lynn! 

Borne on the evening wind across the crimson twilight. 
O'er land and sea they rise and fall, O Bells of Lynn 1 

The fisherman in his boat, far out beyond the headland. 
Listens and leisurely rows ashore, O Bells of Lynn. 

Over the shining sands tlie wandering cattle homeward 
Follow each other at your call, O Bells of Lynn! 



The Origin of Fish Chowder. 



The distant light-house hears, and with his flaming signal, 
Answers you, passing the watchword on, O Bells of Lynn I 

And down the darkening coast run the tumultuous surges, 
And clap their hands and shout to you, O Bells of Lynn I 

Till from the shuddering sen, with your wild incantations, 
Ye summon up the spectral moon, O Bells of Lynn 1 

And startled at the sigiit, like the weird woman of Endor, 
Ye cry aloud and then are still, O Bells of Lynn 1" 



CHAPTER XIY. 
Longfellow's love of music. 

"And the night shall be filled with music, 
And the cares tlint infest the day 
Shall fold their tents like the Arabs, 
And silently steal away." 

The Day is Done. 

E passed the evening delightfully, and some 

near neighbors and friends coming in, the 

current of conversation was led into various 

channels. The poet is passionately fond 

of music, and Mr. Haines, a cultivated amateur, 

played and sang some charming selections. I also 

had the honor of singing, at the poet's request, the 

famous prayer from Rossini's Otello, sung by Desde- 

mona in the finale of the great scene, " Assiaa a pie 

d'un saUae^ 

[183] 




184 Lcngfelloiv s Love of MiisL. 

The prayer has no variations, with the exception 
of a few changes at the end, written by Malibran, 
and so admired by Rossini liiraself that they have 
become traditionaL 

Longfellow listened with tears in his eyes. 

" Pray sing it again," said he, eagerly, when I 
had finished ; " those few notes to me contain more 
real heart-felt music than anything that Rossini ever 
wrote. How well I can picture to myself the 
anguished Desdemona under the influence of some 
terrible impending calamity, praying Heaven with all 
her heart to give her peace and rest. How touching 
the words." Then slowly to himself he repeated, in 
a voice deep with suppressed feeling : 

" Dehl calma o ciel, iiel seno 
Per poco le mie peue — 
?ate che I'amto bene 
Me vengo a consolar." 

(Ah, calm, Heaven, in my sad bi'east 
For e'en a while this grief. 
Come, spouse beloved, although brief 
Thy stay. It consolation brings.) 

There was silence for a moment following his 



Longfelloiv s Love of Music. 18$ 

words, and the faint chords of the prelude recom- 
mencing, his request was complied with. After that 
there was no more music. The night was still and 
soft, and we all adjourned to the terrace overlooking 
the sea. 

The poet, -enveloped in his long cloak, sat in an 
arm-chair facing the water, and I looked at him 
almost expecting to see a saint's halo descend upon 
his head. The moon was high in the heavens, and 
the firmament glittered with its myriad of stars. A 
breeze, unusually soft for night, fluttered gently in 
and out, stirring tlie almost tropical vei'dure at Kahant 
with a faint rustle. The sea, like a fountain overrun 
with liquid silver, swept its long train of heaven- 
lighted waves back and forth upon the strand, up 
and down the little beach, and yet out again to the 
middle of the water lying between Nahant and 
Lynn. 

Mr. Appleton's yacht, the pretty "Alice," lay 
out from the shore. Mr. Longfellow was very fond 
of her. She crossed the Atlantic in 1866; but 
to-night, bathed in moonlight, she made a white 



1 86 Longfellow s Love of Music. 

speck on the wave, and seemed more a phantom than 
a real sloop. Her dainty mast leaned so timidly 
against the sky that even the shadow was unearthly. 
One half expected it to appear and disappear as did 
Heinrich Hudson's, the night that poor E,ip Yan 
Winkle entered upon his twenty years' sleep. 

The poet sat and gazed upon the sea, upon the 
moon, upon the stars, and the while his face shone 
with a heavenly brightness that completely illumined 
it. The rays from the majestic orb silvered anew his 
snowy hair, crept cunningly in and out of his beard, 
and danced over his vesture with elf-like grace, and 
inimitable friendliness. 

They seemed to say, '' You belong to us — you are 
not of earth, but part of a heavenly body in the 
great plan of x^ature, given for the world's benefit ; 
and so to-night we (jome to greet you with affection- 
ate love and the kindred message which emanates 
from souls that only haunt the earth but belong 
really to a higher power. Thus the Queen of Night 
sends greetings to the King of Poetry." 

They flickered on, brighter and stronger, until 



Longfellow' s Love of Music. 187 

his form gleamed with light and his face looked like 
that of one of the saints of old receiving the heav- 
enly benediction. The fire of his soul glittered in 
his blue eyes, like sapphires when the sun shines on 
them. 

He sat there in his old age, a patriarch whom not 
only the smiles of day but of night shone upon — 
loved by all the world and revered by those who 
could know the innate purity and tranquillity of his 
home life, with the mantle of a fame fallen upon his 
shoulder, whose warmth outshone Hsephestus' fires, 
and cloaked him with a dignity and immortality that 
the world has rarely seen. 

Long he sat musing, and no one disturbed his 
revery. Miss Annie had been swinging in her ham- 
mock, but finally got up and went with some of the 
party a bit of the way from the house, to a famous 
ravine or drift in the rocks, which, when the moon 
shone down upon it, was said to be surpassingly 
lovely. 

Not caring for a nearer view than could be had 
from the balcony, I did not go, but remained beside 



1 88 Longfclloivs Love of Music. 

the poet — who, while quiet and melancholy, was not 
so silent as heretofore. Hs spoke with more than his 
accustomed gentleness of voice, but I could see that 
he was in no mood for conversation ; nor did he care 
to be alone — he simply seemed permeated with a 
great sense of quietness and calm, and his body 
showed the utter restfulness of his soul by its im- 
movability and statue-like repose. 

While we were sitting, each one wrapped in 
thought, a burst of music rang out on the air, and 
the sounds came from some distance, borne directly 
by the wind towards the house. 

A regiment of Boston militia had been camping 
out at Nahant for some time, and every evening they 
held a sort of reception after their drill. Evidently 
the day's ceremonies were ended, and this was the 
" home march for everybody." 

The poet looked up quickly and lent a listening 
ear. Again I noticed in his face the same expression 
as when listening to the " Otello," and he said : 

" What can be more delightful than sounds of 
melody wafted to one from some mysterious source ! 



Longfellow s Love of Music. 189 

When night has fallen, and the sights and sounds of 
daily strife are hushed bj the murmur of the winds 
among the leaves and the crash of the breakers 
against the shore, all nature seems in harmony with 
man, and it only needs the added charm of that dis- 
tant music to complete the beauty of this evening." 

" I have a favor to ask, dear master," said I, in- 
terrupting him. '*' Will you not recite to me your 
poem of " 

"The Day is Done?" said lie, interrupting me 
sadly. " Certainly, if it will give you pleasure. I 
mention ' The Day is Done,' because I know you 
must have referred to that." 

He then commenced the first stanza and recited 
until the end with a clear, sweet voice, exquisitely 
modulated, and a depth of earnestness in his tones 
which no one in the world could have shown as well 
as he. I never tire of reading this poem, and say it 
over to myself so often that every word is stamped 
upon my memory. He began : 



" Tlie day is done, and the darkness 
Falls from the wings of night, 



190 Longfellow s Love of Music. 

As a feather is wafted downward, 
From an eagle in his flight. 

" I see the lights of the village 

Gleam through the rain and the mist, 
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me 
That my soul cannot resist. 

" A feeling of sadness and longing 
That is not akin to pain. 
And resembles sorrow only 

As the mist resembles the rain. 

*' And the night shall be filled with music, 
And the cares tliat infest the day 
Shall fold their tents like the Arabs, 
And silently steal away." 

The last words died out to a faiut murmur, but 
the old poet's face still bore its inspired look. 
Thanking him with deep feeling, I prepared to say 
" good-niglit," as the air was getting a little chill, 
and I feared keeping him anj longer ; also — may I 
say it ? — I wished to retire before the soimd of any 
other voice could disturb the lingering memory of 
the professor's inspired tones. As 1 said " good- 
night " he ai'ose, and spoke with infinite tenderness : 

" God bless you, ' chere enfant^ and may your 
life be one of happiness and content ; dormez hien, 
and good-night." 



Longfellow s Love of Music. 191 

He bowed with courtly grace, and led me througli 
the still opened window back to the drawing-room. 
I left him, but, turning, I said : 

" Clier maitre^ are you not thinking of soon 
taking your rest ? This has been a long and tiresome 
day for you, I fear, although to me it has been so 
enjoyable." 

I looked at his face, and it seemed older than 
usual, and I knew he must be tired, although he 
said : 

" 1 cannot go just yet ; besides, I think I hear 
voices, and I must see my daughter to say good- 
night. I could not sleep were I to retire now ; 
again, honne miitJ^ 

Sleep ! I could not sleep myself, but lay think- 
ing over the day's events for some time. Of the 
many great men whom it had been my fortune to 
meet, none, not one, could claim to be the man that 
Longfellow is. His is a soul that looks straight 
ahead, and while he must have known all the fascina- 
tion that comes to the life of a public man, yet never, 
in the slightest way, did a too worldly sentiment 



192 Longfellow s Love of Music. 

ever escape liira, or a spoken thought, that was not 
pure and wholesome, ever pass liis lips. I felt that 
this man was one among men, perliaps the only poet 
whose inner life lias been one beautiful hymn, and 
whose daily intercourse with the world left not one 
imprint on the stainless character, one mark by 
which the fatal traces of passion and worldliness 
could ever show themselves, other than in a lofty 
sense. I could not help praying that one whose 
influence was so grand and puissant, might defy, for 
many years to come, the approach of the angel 
whose visit leaves only desolation behind. 



CHAPTER XY. 



LONGFELLOW IS INTERESTED IN VICTOR HUGO. 



*' A cold, uninterrupted rain, 
That waslied each southern window-pane 
And made a river of the road; 
A sea of mist that overflowed 
The liouse, the barn, the gilded vane, 
And drowned the upland and the plain, 
Througli which the cak-leaves broad and high 
Like phiaitom ships went drifting by." 

Tales of a Wayside Inn, Part II. 

'* Not chance of birth or place has made us friends, 
Being oftentimes of different tongues and nations, 
But the endeavor for the self-same ends, 
With the same hopes, and fears, and aspirations." 

Dedication. 

OR two days the rain has kept us within 

doors and I can scarcely say that I regret 

it, as the poet has been indefatigable in 

his efforts to keep us enlivened, and I 

have had the rare treat of hearing him speak at 
9 [193] 




194 Longfellow is Interested in Victor Hugo. 

length on many subjects, more or less interesting. 
The hours passed under his roof have constituted the 
greatest intellectual event of my life-time. Ilis 
beautiful ideas, and sweet way of expressing them, 
are filled with an ineffable charm, and his voice is in 
keeping with his poetic face and appearance. 

I had a copy of " Les Travailleurs de la Mer " in 
my hand when I came down-stairs late in the after- 
noon, and the professor noticed it. 

" I am glad to sec you reading Victor Hugo," 
said he, amiably ; " he is a great poet and writer, and 
his works, besides possessing infinite charm and vigor, 
are really instructive. Of course his great forte is in 
his imaginative and descriptive power. lie is grand 
and pathetic." 

I interrupted : 
Jl. " I know the old poet so well, that I read his 
writings with still more pleasure, however. His 
description of the devil-fish in this is so terribly 
graphic that I screamed out all alone by myself just 
an hour since, as if really in the clutches of this hor- 
rible monster. I think I have learned more of the 



Longfciloio is Interested in l^ictor Hugo. 195 

wonders of the deep from this, than anj^ otlier stoiy 
I ever read. His imagination, as you say, is so ex- 
traordinary that one scarcely knows where to draw 
the line between it and i-eality." 

Mr. Longfellow said quickly, " You know Victor 
Hugo ? Pray tell me about him. Strange to say I 
never saw him but once, and then at a distance ?" 

I could not help smiling as the poet spoke, and 
he said, " "Why do you smile ?" 

"You great writers," I answered readily, "all 
want to know about each other. The last time I was 
at his house he asked about yon, using exactly the 
same words, but alas ! not knowing you then j)cr- 
sonally, I could tell him nothing. On the contrary, 
I can tell you everything of him, if you care to 
hear." 

" Tell me," said Longfellow, " what kind of a 
man he is, how he lives, and if it be true, as people 
say, that he sits on a throne in his own house ?" 
This last lialf laughingly. 

"Prepare for a long recital," said I, jestingly, 
and besan : 



196 Longfellow is Interested in Victor Hugo. 

" Yictor Hugo lived at No. 21 Rue do Clicliy, iu 
Paris, when I first knew him. Now he lias removed 
to a fine house near the Arc du Triomphe in Avenue 
d'Eylau, I believe, named " Avenue Yictor Hugo" 
in honor of the poet. He used to receive at his 
house every Thursday and Sunday evenings, and 
around him were gathered the principal literary 
lights of France. He does not ' sit upon a throne,' 
as many have said, but his arm-chair is so large and 
peculiar in shape, that devotees of tlie mansion have 
nicknamed it ' Ic tvone du Maitre,' and I suppose 
for all time it will retain its title. 

" His dwelling-place was a very large apartment, 
with ample rooms. Erom the moment the door 
opened into the antechamber all was light and com- 
fort. The walls of the reception and drawing-rooms 
were Imng with Venetian tapestry in red and gold. 
Rich stripes of embroidered yellow satin alternated 
with ones of the same size in scarlet velvet. The 
ceiling was covered in the same way, and held in the 
center a superb chandelier of gold and rock crystal, 
glittering with a thousand lights furnished by innu- 



Longfellow is Interested in Victor Hugo, igj 

merable waxen tapers. Yon know it is considered 
vulgar to use gas in a salon in Paris. All around the 
room were curiously-carved magnificent cabinets in 
renaissance and Venetian work. They were filled 
with medals and collections of coins, bric-a-brac, and 
valuable souvenirs, exquisite in taste and lavish in 
quantity. 

" Strange to say, not a book was to be seen, nor 
was there a piano. Five immense oval mirrors (Ye- 
netian) hung around the room in various places, and 
the intervening panels of the principal apartment 
were hung with superb renaissance candelabra, some 
of them centuries old, and giving the apartment a 
very quaint Louis-the-Fourteenth look, and a real 
old-fashioned air. It is the sort of room one would 
expect to find Victor Hugo in. The furniture was 
of dark crimson velvet and rosewood. The win- 
dows, heavily-curtained, had portieres or hangings of 
the same material at the doors. There was a circular 
divan or dos-a-dos in the center of the room, and 
near the fire-place, the comfortable arm-chair that is 
called the master's throne. 



198 Longfellow is Interested in Victor Hugo. 

" The poet is of medium heiglit, and rather stout ; 
his hair and beard are quite gray, and while the one 
is ample, the other is very scant, his head being al- 
most bald. He has a kind face, heavily furrowed, 
and rather sad. His smile is a pleasant one, and is 
the only beautiful thing about his countenance, 
which is often dark and troubled. His brow bears 
the impress of intense thought. His eyes are pro- 
found and steady : I cannot tell whether they are 
black or gray, but they seem nearer a brownish hazel 
than either, and are very expressive without being 
positively remarkable. He is a perfect gentleman of 
the old school, and receives his guests with French 
ceremony, not unmixed with a certain genial friendli- 
ness that is very frank and seemingly sincere. 

" On the occasion of one visit to him I had the 
honor of crowning him with a laurel wreath on the 
anniversary of his seventy-third birth-day. 

" "^j the way, maestro," turning to Longfellow, 
"he was born the twenty-sixth of February, and 
yourself the twenty-seventh of the same month, so 
you see that Calliope had you both in her mind about 



Longfellow IS Interested in Victor Huge. 199 

the same time, although several years elapsed be- 
tween." 

Our poet interrupted. 

"l!s"ever mind me," said he, smiling; "you can- 
not tell how interested I am to hear more of Victor 
Hugo. What else happened that evening ?" 

" Several Americans in Paris," I continued, " who 
had long enjoyed his hospitality and the charm of 
his society, decided on presenting him with the 
wreath and some flowers as a slight testimonial of 
their remembrance. 

" I was selected for the proud office of placing 
tliG laurel on his honored liead, also to read two origi- 
nal poems written for the occasion by Arsene Hous- 
saye, the celebrated French novelist. I nearly killed 
myself going up some rickety stairs — I don't know 
how many — in the Palais Poyale, to get M. Martcl, 
of the Theatre Fran^aise, to teach me how to recite 
them properly. 

" These are the lines, and, my French being per- 
ilous in those days, I tliink I must have learned them 
parrot-fashion, by dint of repeating them an hundred 



200 LongfcUoiv is Interested in Victor Hugo. 



times or more. The accent must have been, to say 
tlie least, peculiar, and I wonder I ever dared try it. 

"'TO VICTOR HUGO. 



Ton ggnie est la cime anx eblouissements 
La nature sourit a tes apothgoses 
La vigne est la Foret en leurs metamorphoses 
Se traduissent tes vers, et content tes romans. 



" 'Ton gSuie est la source ou boivent Ics amants 
Courrant par les jardins tout parfume des roses 
S'enivrant du parfnm des fleurs blanches et roses 
Et jetant a la mer, perles et diamants. 



** 'Ton genie est un ciel en sa beaut6 premiere 
Quand le jeune soleil rayonne epanoni 
Quand les etoiles d'or chfintent I'hymn inoui. 

4. 

" * Ton genie est un raonde ovl Dieu met sa lumifire 
Parceque ton esprit clierche la verity, 
Ton ame I'infini et ton coeur Thumanitfi.' 



"Imagine after that the sensation. Victor Hugo 
jumped up and embraced Arsene Houssaye, and 
they kissed each other on both cheeks in real French 



Longfellozv is Interested in Victor Hugo. 20l 

fasliion. Everybody came forward to congratulate 
the author of tlie verses and the one to whom they 
were addressed.; the flowers were presented, and such 
well-known persons as Louis Blanc, Ernest de Her- 
villy, Eichard Lesclide, Paul Le Roy, Theo. de Banne- 
ville, and a host of others, among whom was our Amer- 
ican Minister, your friend Hon. E. B. Washburne, all 
crowded up to get a word with the poet. Ho hav- 
ing previously said that his anniversary was a sad 
day, 'triste jour,' and one that he spent in absolute 
solitude, we were obliged to celebrate the event the 
evening before, and Arsene Houssaye, anticipating 
his oft-reiterated words, had prepared still another 
poem, which I read, and which seems to me prettier 
even than the first. 

•' ' ARSENE HOUSSAYE. 

1. 

" ' Diinanche tu dissais, ne chaatons pas ma f6te 
Puisqu' une annSe encore m'approche du tomheau 
L'amour passo a la mort le feu de son flambeau, 
Le cypres est le seul bouquet qui ceint ma tete. 



202 Longfclloiu is Interested in Victor Hugo 



" 'Tu lie crains p;is la mort, snurde, aveugle ct inuette 
Ce n'est pas pour Hugo qui cliante le corbeau 
Continue a cheiclier le vrai conime lebeau 
Les homines comme toi sont des Dieu, O PoSt. 

8. 

" ' La jeuuesse a trompie ton aine! Tu vivras 
Les sigcles ne seront pour toi que des aunees 
Quand Dieu t'appellera vers d'autres destinfies. 



" ' C'est I'immortalite qui t'ouvrira ses bras 

Toujours jeune et toujours belle c'est le myst^re 
Tu seras chez les Dieux, mais sans quitter la terre.'" 

" How beautiful," said Longfellow, when I had 
finished, " I do not wonder that he was pleased, what 
did he say ?" 

" Say " I repeated. " He didn't say any- 
thing, but the tears came into his eyes and again he 
tendered his hand to the author, and they embraced 
each other as before, although this time they were 
visibly much moved ; we spent a very delightful 
evening, and when the last person had dispersed the 
midnight bells were striking all over Paris. I used 
to spend every Tiiursday at his liouse, and usually 



Longfellow is Interested in Victor Hugo. 203 

Sunday evenings. Monday was a special day, but I 
remember once when I was there, after spending a 
long time in discussion, a little before ten, we went 
out to have some refreshment. lie sat at the head 
of the table, with his dear old friend Madame 
Drouet his vis-a-vis. There were fourteen people 
present, and he made a charming host, talking now 
and then himself, drawing out the others, and all 
the while he was eating sliced oranges with great 
appetite, and drinking some fine old burgundy, to 
which he added three large lumps of sugar to each 
half-glass, stirring it vigorously, and then quaffing 
two-thirds of it at a single draught. I have seen 
him so many times, but remember also particularly 
one evening, when he commenced talking on art and 
the galleries in Holland and Belgium. It was a 
superb lecture, aud he talked unremittingly for two 
hours. Every word that comes out of his mouth is 
a pearl of great price. I never in my life learned so 
much before of the Flemish school of painting, 
and his description of certain pictures was so perfect 
that on a subsequent visit to Holland I recognized 



204 Longfellow is Interested in Victor Hugo. 

them from liis describing, without the aid of guide 
or catalogue. He is a remarkable speaker, and oh ! 
so eloquent. He is very simple in his manners, and 
never before have I heard any one who conld pay a 
more delightful compliment than he. 

" To the yonng poets who flock around him and 
fill his rooms, he is especially amiable, and in speak- 
ing of his way of complimenting I refer more par- 
ticularly to them, as he always found some delicate, 
sweet thing to say just in the moment when it was 
least expected, and there was a subtleness about his 
remarks that was often very wonderful. 

" Strange to say, he speaks of the time when he 
was exiled as one might refer to a dinner, without 
emotion, without sentiment, simply a recurrence to 
fact. 

" A great many titled people come to see him, in 
fact, more noblemen than commoners, but no one is 
called otherwise than simple "Monsieur." Victor 
Hugo himself is ahvays addressed as " Cher maitrc," 
by both ladies and gentlemen. The latter sometimes 
kiss his hand affectionately, if they be students or 



Longfellow is Interested in Victor Hugo. 205 

young aspirants for literary honors, while Victor 
Hugo never kisses a lady's hand, but always her wrist. 

"He certainly is original, and that to me is 
charming. His speech is soft and insinuating, and 
while any one else is talking he never takes his eyes 
from their face, but sits with his chin propped 
against his hand, the very picture of expectant curi- 
osity and serious attention. He puts questions with 
great adroitness, and is as grave as a lawyer while 
awaiting a response. 

" Although he lived so long a time at Guernsey, 
on the coast of England, he speaks but little English. 
But I am sure he knows the language as well as we, 
from the look on his face, when one speaks it. He 
always says, ' Oh, ray son Charles spoke beautifully,' 
referring to English, and his knowledge of Shakes- 
peare was remarkable. 'Pauvre Charles,' then he 
would sigh, and I do not wonder ; the loss of such a 
man to the world of letters was something, but the 
loss of such a son was enough to sadden any father." 

" By the way," said Longfellow, " he did know 
Shakespeare, because his translation of the English 



2o6 Longfellow is Interested in Victor Hugo. 



bard's noted works is the most complete and fcaithful 
to the text of any published in the French language. 
It is paying him a truthful compliment to say that 
his work will stand any amount of close reading and 
criticism." 

" Francois Charles Hugo, as he was called, left 
two children, and these little ones are the delight of 
Victor Hugo's life. He is very fond of his daughter- 
in-law, who has since married Mr, Henry Lockroy, of 
the French Parliamcnl:, and he passes most of his 
time with his beloved grandchildren, playing with 
them quite alone. 

" But how I am rambling on, dear master," said 
I, turning to Longfellow, " and I have not yet told 
you of what he said of your own poems." 

Longfellow looked up sweetly. 

" I cannot tell how interesting it has been," said 
he ; " nor how much I wish that I had met him. 
Pray go on." 

" He knows your principal poems by heart, and 
pronounces most of them beautifully ; and he seems 
equally well acquainted with the text and subject 



LoiigfcLloiv is Interested in Victor Hugo. 207 

He calls you a ' lieart-rcaderj' and referrod to the sen- 
timent and purity of your writings. He liked ' Hia- 
watha ' particularly ; but it was amusing to hear him 
pronounce the word. Excuse me, but it was a 
mouthful. He got on beautifully until he came to 
the vj commencing the third syllable, when his 
mouth got into a twist, and poor ' watlia ' was stran- 
gled between a Dutch v and an Italian a that threat- 
ened to obliterate every vestige of the original sound 
of the letters. Of course I laughed, and everybody 
else appreciated the poet's peculiar pronunciation of 
English. As Yictor Hugo good-naturedly smiled 
himself, liis satellites knew that they could chime in 
with him, and everybody with a proper respect still 
seemed to enjoy his English immensely, 

" He Is very kind to Americans, and seems par- 
ticularly pleased to receive them in his house. He 
longs to visit America, but I am afraid he never will. 
He calls this ' the country of wonders' — He pays des 
Qnerveilles ' — and is really and genuinely enthusiastic 
when talking about it." 

In speaking of his home life, I said that he spent 



2o8 Longfelloiu is Interested in Victor Hugo. 



much time with his "little" grandchildren. I am 
afraid I must alter that statement, as they are no 
longer so " little," and he is now a Senator, so of 
course things are much changed. He is hale and 
hearty, and when he goes about he rides on the tops 
of omnibuses so that he can " study character," as he 
expresses it. ISTo one clambers up with readier step 
than he, and he sometimes smokes a pipe with great 
stolidity of countenance, and looks around his dear 
Paris that he can never see too much of. He chats 
with his elbow-neighbor on the 'bus, whether prince 
or laborer, with the greatest friendliness imaginable, 
and when he gets down goes off with right good will, 
saluted reverentially by everybody around him. Not 
a working-man in his district but knows him, and his 
face is as familiar to the regular Parisian as the light 
of the sun or his own famous Kotre Dame de Paris. 
He is really beloved by the people, and is vastly fond 
of talking of the " Model Republic — America," and 
the " Great Republic — France." 

" When you sec him," said Longfellow, with 
hearty sincerity, " present him my special compli- 



Longfellow is Interested in Victor Hugo. ?.o<^ 

ments. If I ever go to Paris again I shall not fail to 
pay him a visit ; and in the meantime do not forget 
to tell him how he is loved and appreciated in 
America, and how honored I shall be to shake him 
by the hand." 



CHAPTER XYI. 



SKETCHES DRAWN FROM LIFE. 

Around the fireside, at their ease, 
There sat a group of friends, entranced 
AVith the delicious melodies ; 
Who from the far-off noisy town 
Had to the wayside inn come down, 
To rest beneath its old oak trees: 
The fire-light on their faces glanced, 
Their shadows on the wainscot danced. 
And, though of different lands and speech, 
Each had liis tale to tell, and each 
Was anxious to be pleased, and please, 
And while the sweet musician plays, 
Let me in outline sketch them all, 
Perchance uncouthly, as the blaze 
With its uncertain touch portrays 
Their shadowy semblance on the wall. 

' A young Sicilian, too, was there ; 
In sight of Etna born and bred. 
Some breath of its volcanic air 
Was glowing in his heart and brain, 
[210] 



Sketches Drawn from Life. 211 

And being rebclliouH to his liege, 
After Palermo's fatal siege, 
Across the western seas lie fled." 

Tales of a Wayside Inn. — Prelude, 




OME months had pasaed since my Nahant 
visit when I went again to Cambridge. 
It was Christmas niglit, and besides Sign or 
Monti, a great friend of the professor, 
my husband and myself were the only strangers 
present. The house was a beautiful picture in itself, 
and the hanging wreaths and garlands showed the 
presence of the holy natal tide. The poet was as 
usual extremely courteous and kind, and the evening 
passed with delightful charm. I recognized in Mr. 
Monti an old friend of the professor, and he said to 
me during the dinner : 

" This is the young Sicilian that I have known so 
long, and love so well," looking as he spoke directly 
toward Mr. Monti with an affectionate smile. 

Signor Monti was evidently gratilSed, and said, 
with ready grace, speaking our language perfectly : 
" Yes, 1 am the once young, now old Sicilian 



212 Sketches Drawn from Life. 

mentioned in ' The Tales of a Wayside Inn.' Did you 
not recognize me ?" 

"Of course," said I heartily, "I ought to have 
done so at once, but not thinking about it, my imagi- 
nation has proven itself excessively torpid. It never 
entered my mind that you were the real ' Signer 
Luigi ' spoken to by the Jew ; but," turning to Long- 
fellow, " let me ask 3'ou a question. Arc all of the 
characters bona fide in the poem, and may I know 
who they are ?" 

Longfellow looked up quite gayly, and said, 

" Yes, I think you may, but Mr. Monti shall 
answer. Let him tell the story." 

Mr. Monti would not hear to that, so Mr. Long- 
fellow began to speak. "Mr. Monti and his friends 
used to steal away every summer for their vacation 
to the little town of Sudbury, not far from Boston, 
and they had such fine times among themselves, I 
really thought that I should like to join their party 
to pass my next summer. They insisted on my com- 
ing, and I was so charmed with the place that I im- 
mediately conceived my poem, ' The Tales of a Way- 



Sketches Drawn from Life. 213 

side Inn.' The house, although quaint and old-fash- 
ioned, was interesting in one way. Three pairs of 
lovers used to steal in and out of the old tavern, and 
three modest fiancees would regularly come to the 
trysting-place in the vine-embowered garden. Later 
on the same three couples were married in fine style, 
and took each other for better or worse. One was 
Monti and his wife, the other was the poet Theophi- 
las Parsons, and the third couple was Dr. Parsons, 
sister and her fiance. 

" Ah ! those were happy times. Why, do you 
know, Monti was so fond of the place, that he went 
there for twelve consecutive seasons, and 1 don't 
know but the others did the same, now that I think 
of it. I went a number of times until the inn fell 
into disuse, and after my poem was finished, it was 
strange to say, almost abandoned by our old party. 
Still it was a charming spot, and so home-like. The 
old inn is standing now, although sadly changed, and 
I fear that of the number who once passed so many 
happy hours there, not one to-day would think of 



214 Sketches Drawn from Life. 

returning unless by way of a souvenir for Auld Lang 
Syne." 

" But the other characters," I interrupted, " who 
were they ? did they really exist V 

" Really," said the poet, laughing ; " why, of 
course. Professor Daniel Tread well was the Theo- 
logian ; Henry Wales, Esq., was the Student ; Lyman 
Plowe was the Landlord, and our Italian friend here 
before you was and is Luigi Monti, the Sicilian." 

" The only fictitious charactei-," interrupted the 
Signor, " was the Jew. That is Mr. Longfellow's 
secret, he will never tell who he was ; but you have 
forgotten to say that the musician was Ole Bull," 
continued Mr. Monti. "I am sure inadame must 
often have heard him play." 

"Who," said I quickly, "has not heard of the 
' Wizard of the North -? and what American but has 
listened to his playing? I knew him well. He was 
a charming gentleman, besides being a good story- 
teller — and such an amiable man, while the whole 
world acknowledged his wondrous talent," 

Mr. Monti evidently did not intend letting the 



Sketches Draiou from Life. 



professor off about the unknown character in the 
" Tales of a Wayside Inn." Turning to him, he said, 
with Itahan perverseness : 

" Confess the Jew was " The poet, with a 

cunning smile, broke in : 

*' 'A Spanish Jew from Alicant, 

With aspect graud aud grave was there ; 
Vendor of silks and fabrics rare, 
And attar of rose from the Levant.' 

I am sure," continuing helplessly, " I could not 
describe him better than that. Are you satisfied ?" 

Monti laughed heartil}^, and gave in that the 
Professor was altogether too clever for him. He 
would give up trying to find out wiio he was. But, 
he added, with a characteristic gesture, to me, later : 

"Many have wondered who the Jew was, and 
between ouselves, I don't think he really ever 
existed." That was Italian-like, and so droll. Some 
way I liked Mr. Monti better. 

After dinner, the subject of bric-a-brac came up, 
and the professor invited us to his son Charles' room 
to see some rare objects, and some Japanese paint- 



2i6 Sketches Drazvn from Life. 

ings. On the way from the upper landing I stopped 
to examine some curious piece of mechanism, wliich 
proved to be the poet's gymnastic apj)aratus. lie 
stepped in to it quite glibly, to show us how it 
worked, and stooping over began to raise weights in 
either Iiand with astonishing ease. I looked on in 
amazement. How strong he was, and after din- 
ner too. 

"Come," said he, cheerily, "you try; it's very 
simple." 

I stepped on to the platform and took up a ring, 
struggled tried to lift it up, bent over, tried again ; 
but in vain ; then, oh horror ! I heard a fiendish 
sound as of stitches giving way ; but I would not 
give up, so ventured again — this time with a very 
red face. I bravely kept my post until the practiced 
acrobat came forward commiseratingly. He looked 
puzzled and said : 

" What is it — ^your muscle ?" 

" No," I answered faintly, " I think — I know it's 
my dress. You see, Parisian waists are hardly the 
thing in which to practice gymnastics, and — " 



Sketches Di'awii from Life. 217 

" Come off directly," said the professor, severely. 
" Wh_y did yon not speak of it before ? " lialf-relent- 
ing. " Let me look." lie tlien turned me around as 
if I Lad been a lay figure, and witli a grave, serious 
voice said, in matter-of-fact- fashion, " l^othing is 
spoiled — I never would have forgiven myself had 
that dress suffered." Then he turned the poor 
offending apparatus nearer the wall, with paramount 
displeasure. We entered his son's apartment. It 
was filled with beautiful cabinets in Japanese work, 
intricate boxes, fans, chains, carved ivory knick- 
knacks, and screens innumerable, that stood about the 
place. The doors were paneled with Japanese heads, 
and some paintings hung upon the walls. 

'' Look well at them," said the poet clearly, 
" look well, and tell me what they are." 

I saw what they were, but Mr. Longfellow's voice 
stopped me. Suspecting some trick I refused to 
answer, and he said with liis eyes full of fun : 

" Ko, no, this is not jesting," quite seriously ; 
" what are they ?" 



3i8 Sketches Drazvn from Life, 

" Unless my e^'es deceive me," said I, " tlicj are 
specimens of Japanese oil-painting." 

" That's just what they are," said he, composedly. 
" I thought you could not be mistaken. I was only 
trying to joke about them, because between ourselves, 
one can see they are Japanese ; but it's very hard," 
laughingly, '• to tell wliat else they are intended for. 
My son is fond of this sort of pictures, but to me 
they look more comical than beautiful. I always 
want to laugh when I see that raoon," pointing to a 
golden face on the canvas, " it does look so know- 
ing." 

In truth it was a droll painting to look at, but it 
was in reality too line a work of art to be so hardly 
criticised, and good Mr. Monti would not hear of our 
traducing it farther. After passing a delightful half- 
hour rummaging about, we left tlie bric-a-brac cham- 
bers. On our way past I spied the now disgraced 
apparatus. " Do you use it often ?" said I to the 
poet. 

" Every morning, regularly," he responded ; " it 
is a splendid exercise, and of positive benefit to the 



Sketches Drawn from Life. 219 

health. I would not iniss it." We sat for some time 
in the beautiful drawing-room, and Mr. Longfellow 
was very animated and cheerful. He talked on many 
subjects and delightfully of Italy. 

"Ah !" he repeated, "■ I do want to see it so much. 
I tell you, every one likes France, but we all love 
Italy." 

" This is the twenty-fifth Christmas dinner that 
we have eaten together," chimed in Mr. Monti, " and 
I think we always have some little word to say for 
my country. Mr. Longfellow spoils me." 

" Not at all,''' interrupted the poet. " I speak 
only what comes fron:i my heart." 

Signor Monti is amiable, charming, and deeply 
attached to Mr. Longfellow. "Attached" is scarcely 
the word. He adores him, and their friendship of 
many years is another beautiful sentiment, bearing 
flowers that blossom anew with every spring-time. 
Besides Mr. Monti's manners, he is a scholar, a lin- 
guist, and a man of great talent. He has much heart 
and is capable of deep feeling, and in many ways ia 



220 Sketches Draivn from Life. 



exactly suited to the companionship of a nature like 
Longfellow's. 

On our way home, Mr. Monti did nothing but 
talk of hin] and his rare quality. 

" He is a man in a million," he wonld say, " and 
when you have known him during thirty years, as I 
have, you will appreciate what a great nature he has. 
He never changes, and every time that I have seen 
him during all these years, I greet him each day 
with equal pleasure, and say adieu with new feelings 
of regret. He is a great man. There is only one 
Longfellow in all this world." 



CHAPTER XYIL 

THE FRIEND OF HIS YOUTH. 

I remember the gleams and glooms, that dart 
Across the school boy's brain ; 
The song and the silence in the heart 
That in part are prophesies, and in part 
Are longings wild and vain. 
And the voice of that fitful song 
Sings on and is never still, 
A boy's will is the wind's will. 

And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.'" 

My Lost Youth. 

*' There is no flock, however watched and tended, 
But one dead lamb is there; 
There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended. 
But has one vacant chair." 

Resignation. 

i'E determined to go to Cambridge this 

morning, and once there, were more than 

repaid for onr discomforting drive, by 

tlie cordial welcome of the professor. 

The house looked very stately among the snow- 

[221] 




222 The Friend of his Youth. 

capped trees, and the sloping lawn, wliere the grass 
seems in summer-time an unending green, was cov- 
ered with a thick white pall. Coming np the front 
walk, the poet met us at the door and led the way 
into the delightful study. So bright was the picture 
that I could not help exclaiming, " How beautiful are 
these walls, the atmosphere breathes rest and com- 
fort." 

" And, — " added the professor, " when you come 
the many chambers are filled with welcomes." 

A bright-faced gentleman, evidently an in- 
valid, was drawn up before the fire, a little to the 
left, I should say, and the professor presented 
him as — 

" My dear old friend, Mr. Greene." 

Mr. Greene has a charming smile, and looked 
affectionately at the poet as he said these words. 

" Yes," he answered, " your old friend, and now 
■worse — old and helpless. You see," he continued, 
" 1 had so severe an attack of rheumatism some time 
since, that it has left me in a very lame condition. 
I am obliged to sit here in this chair, and cannot 



The Friefid of his Youth. 223 

move with ease, otherwise I should get up and make 
you a profound bow." 

" We'll forgive you, Greene," said the professor, 
cheerfully, " although who can say how much we 
lose in not witnessing that bow. Perhaps sup- 
pose you try it ?" 

The invalid was " not to be coaxed," he said, so 
we sat down and talked of the weather, Boston, a 
hundred things, until the poet said, 

" I want to show you my Bodoni." 

He then led the way into the little room open- 
ing out of the study, and brought forth his won- 
drous treasures. One was a superb volume, and to- 
day these copies are most rare. Perhaps no one else 
in America possessed a collection of equal value and 
beauty. The professor with a scholar's eye, and 
student's love of ancient lore, fondled it with tender 
hands. He then went over to Mr. Greene, and to- 
gether the two companions of childhood pored over 
a work that still had power to charm. 

It was a beautiful sight to witness the tender 
deference of Mr. Greene towards Longfellow, but 



224 ^^^^ Friend of J lis Youth. 

still more touching to see the poet's regard for his 
invalid friend. He leaned towards him lovingly, 
lifted the volumes with wondrous care, and placed 
^them in his hands with all solicitude, then took them 
away. When one particularly interesting demanded 
closer attention, the two old heads almost touched 
each other, and the eyes that three-score of years 
ago read from the same page at school, to-day 
scanned anew, but with deeper love and interest, the 
words that they knew by heart, not by habit. 

Some time jjassed ; no one sj)oke, and yet they 
read on. Longfellow laid his hand on Mr. Greene's 
shoulder, the chair was drawn still closer, and the 
poet's silver tresses almost touched his friend's sparse 
locks. The faces were different, but a curious study. 

The one, bright with a youthful vigor, was 
pleasantly flushed with a faint color, and the una- 
bated interest that lie had in all classic souvenirs 
showed itself in the eager look of his eye, and the 
ready movement of the outstretched hands. The 
supple form bent itself with a grace and facility 
that belied his snowy locks and whitened, frost-like 



The Friend of his Youth. 225 

beard. He seemed a man strong not only in intel- 
lectual strengtli, but in a physique that the passing 
3^ears had in no wise undci-mined. 

But the companion of his youth — how can I best 
describe him ? The Iiead once of shapely grace, and 
crowned with masses of curling luiir, had shrunken 
with the march of time, and the scanty locks gath- 
ered about the still classic profile drooj^ed with tim- 
idity and strangeness, as if left alone by their kin- 
dred, they abandoned themselves to their fate. The 
face once the perfection of manly beauty, still re- 
tains an expression of great sweetness and refine- 
ment. The eyes blue, large, and very bright, smile 
out with Intel liii^encc and o-enial warmth, and on the 
broad, high forehead the fine wrinkles are powerless 
to hide the noble proportions and deeply-marked 
characteristics of the man's brain and intellectual 
power. The mouth is a little drawn, but the lips 
open pleasantly and srai.e with the slightly conscious 
expression of one who had been used to fascinate. 
The whole face is sympathetic, modest and gentle, 
but — old. 



226 The Friend of his Youth. 

One would think liiui Longfellow's senior by a 
great deal, yet the poet first saw the light of day 
when Mr. Greene's mother was a blushing bride, and 
many years after his loved friend came into the 
world. 

In youth however, they were fast allies, and M. . 
Greene — whose name I might give in fnll as Geor^3 
W. Greene — is the grandson of the great Geneial 
Greene, and has since become widely known as a 
historian and a very able writer. 

The professor looked up as the last page was 
turned by his friend and said : 

" How natural it seems for us to look over these 
old things once more. Do you remember such, or 
such a thing (referring to their early life), and how 
happy it would have made me conld I ever even 
dreamed myself the possessor of such a treasure as 
this ?" 

Greene nodded, and then seeing that we were sit- 
ting unoccupied, he said quickly to the i^rofcssor, 

" You know how I. love to go over anything with 
you, but see — j^our guests must find us strangely ob- 



The Friend of Ins Yciith. 227 

livious, and we have been neglectful of them for a 
long time." 

1 jDrotested, that instead, nothing conld have given 
ns greater pleasure than to listen to their remarks, 
and the talk on the " Bodoni " was instructive as 
well as entertaining. Mr. Greene sat very quietly 
looking out on the already fading twilight, and the 
poet, with my husband lit a cigarette and commenced 
a conversation on Italy and its wondrous wealth of 
art, and artistic souvenirs ; with reference to different 
countries he said : 

"We all like France, but we love Italy, My 
many visits to ' The Eternal City ' never sufficed for 
all that I wished to learn, and each time seemed more 
incomplete. Home is inexhaustible in all that appeals 
to the mind of the student, and the sight of her seven 
hills as I came into the city used to make my heart 
throb with strange feelings of awe and pleasure. I 
hope to return there some day, perhaps soon maybe 
this coming summer." 

We then entered into a general conversation on 
Italy, and my husband recalled souvenirs of Verona, 



228 The Friend of his Youth. 



one of the most liistorical and splendid of all her cities. 
The professor spoke with beautiful sentiment on the 
ancient landmarks, and said : 

" That it was peculiarly interesting to lovers of 
the antique. The tombs of tlie Scaligeri, witli their 
wondrous architecture, the historic church of San 
Zeno, and above all, the superb Coliseum or amphi- 
theatre that stands up a glory of tlie past in miracu- 
lous preservation, and an honor to the present genera- 
tion of Italy. I never tired of Verona," he said. 

" And the tomb of Romeo and Juliette?" I inter- 
rupted. 

" I did not see it," he answered, "although I saw 
the old palace near Piazza delle Erbe, with the in- 
scription, ' Qui ercmo le ease del Ctqndetti ed e Mon- 
tecchV (Here were the houses of the Capulets and 
Montagues)." 

" 1 will send you the photograph," said my hus- 
band, " it gives a very good idea of the old tomb, 
and although the place is somewhat distant from the 
so-named ' Palazzo Capuletti,' it is in a pretty spot. 
You go under a grapevined trellis, and at the foot of a 



The Friend of his Youth. 229 

fine old garden jou turn to the right, where you follow 
the walk that leads uj) to the open door of the tomb or 
chapel. Here Juliette is supposed to be buried beside 
her Roineo, and numerous inscriptions testify to the 
immortal love of these two scions of Veronese nobility, 
The top or ujDper part of the tomb has worn away, and 
it now has the appearance of an emjDty casket. The 
form is still perfect ; the arches above the vault are 
time-eaten and marked with sure deca3^ The sides 
of the stone bear faint signs of carved memorials, and 
some ancient withered wreaths in jetted wire have 
hung faithful to their trust, who knows how long? 
There are always fresh flowers upon the tomb, and 
such numbers of cards of visitors from every clime, 
that the place has a strangely alive look." 

The professor was deeply interested, and re- 
marked : 

" Yes, Shakespeare immortalized two lovers, and 
I regret that I did not visit the spot. I will be de- 
lighted to have the picture. It is kind in you to 
give it me, and I shall always keep it as a souvenir of 
a sad but grand old tale." 



230 The Friend of his Youth. 

A lady then came into the study, and the poet 
introduced Mrs. Glrcene. She was the wife of the 
historian, and was so pleasing that one could not help 
being favorably impressed with her. She cordially 
extended her hand, at the same time looking me full 
in the face with clear, frank eyes, and a smiling mouth 
that made her few words of welcome doubly agree- 
able. She seemed a woman of straightforward at- 
tributes, and infinite s^'mpathy of character and man- 
ner. The word " helpmeet " came constantly in my 
mind as I saw her, and watched her loving, wifely 
attention to her husband, and how she anticipated 
even his words, when his speech became energetic 
and commanding. She joined our circle with ad- 
mirable ease, but before long the announcement of 
dinner put a temporary veto on our conversation, and 
all arose to meet later at the hospitable board. 

First of all Professor Longfellow thought of his old 
friend, and he went nimbly up with the ease of five- 
and-thirty, to offer him his arm. Mr. Greene took it 
with a friendly smile, and together they started for 
the dining-room. 



Tk: Friend of his Youth. 231 

I could not help noticing the tenderness with 
which the poet guided his Invalid gnost, nor the 
touching picture they made together as thej walked 
arm-in-arm through the soft harmonious rooms ! 
The warm fire-light and richer glow of the waxen 
tapers falling on their aged heads, illumined the 
form of tha one, and cast flickering shadows over the 
countenance of the other. 

Time had changed the outer man, but the fast, 
firm friendship whose bonds were knit in early 
youth, had gone on through three-score of years, 
thickening and strengthening, until its ligaments and 
fibers were cemented together, as are the roots of 
strong forest trees, that impervious to the shocks of 
wind, liail rain storm and tempest, only stand more 
firmly as the centuries go on, immutable as only are 
immovable tbingsj unchangeable as the great laws of 
nature, and — a friendship like theirs. 

They walked slowly through to the library and 
hall, and from there to the dining-room. Longfellow, 
attentive before, was doubly so at table. His watch- 
ful eyes never left Mr.Greene's face, and the daintiest 



232 The Friend of his Youth. 

morsels, the most savory bits, speedily found their 
wa}' to his friend's plate, and whether or no, he was 
bound to make an effort to eat. It was impossible to 
resist the poet's cheery voice, first remarking this 
thing, then urging that, all the time keeping up the 
most positive belief that Mr. Greene must eat well 
and heartily if he wished to please his fauiily and 
friends and regain strength. He was unwearying in 
his attentions, yet they were so delicately tendered, 
and with such unobtrusive mien, that Mr. Greene 
could never have thougiit that lie was an invalid. 
He was merely a dear friend received with open 
arms, and treated to the best the house afforded, as 
should be an honored and cherished gnest. 

It was the first time I had seen Longfellow in 
this guise, and if pleased befoi'e with his rare sweet- 
ness and simplicity of manner, I was even more 
touched to-day to witness this tender I'egard of an old 
friend, and the exquisite frankness with which he 
showed his pleasure in his society. He could not do 
enough for him, and during the whole evening his 
face glowed with contentment and real happiness, 



Tke Friend of his Youth. 233 

while his voice rang out with admirable clearness, and 
his speech held the happy cadences of one who holds 
sympathetic converse with a congenial companion. 

After dinner, we adjourned to the lovely parlor 
and had coffee. The room was beautifully lit up, 
and a generous lire of solid wood roared up in the 
great fire-place, startling the flecks of soot from their 
crannies, and reflecting a hundred lights on the pol- 
ished brass andirons, and near the chimney-place on 
every bright object that timidly dwelt iu the vicinity. 
Long we sat there in light and comfort. The wind 
howled without, but it could not penetrate within the 
walls of the good old Craigie mansion. 

The professor had drawn Mr. Greene's chair near 
the fire, and he threw himself in an attitude of 
supreme grace in a corner of a sofa to the left of the 
chimney. 

There with his head resting on his hand in 
a favorite position, he sat talking with his friend, and 
the hum of their voices was a pleasant accompani- 
ment to the charming softness of the apartment, the 
crackle of the fire, and the distant soughing of the 



2 34 T^f^^ Friend of his Youth. 

night wind. One could easily rest under the spell of 
the moment, and fancy it all a glowing " tableau 
vivant." 

The prospect of a long, cold drive into Boston 
suddenly dispelled my dreaming, and the rest of the 
evening held the one disagreeable fact of being 
obliged to leave so much warmth and comfort, and 
go out into the night ; a rude awakening after so 
delightful a visit. 

As we went back into the study before going 
away, the professor turned to a superb bust in white 
marble that stood on a table in front of a window, 
and said patting the cold, glittering stone : 

" Did you not recognize it ? This is my friend 
Greene. Who would think that this seemingly 
strong man is intended for the one that we have just 
left ; and it's his image," said he, going on enthusias- 
tically, " it looks just exactly " — a little sadly — " as he 
did — then, when this was taken. Cher Greene," 
said he tenderly. Then he looked again at the 
white marble that gleamed with singular life and 
persistent fascination. It was so fair that in contrast 



The Friend of his Youth. 235 

I tlionght of " The Raven," and said unconsciously, 
" Take your form from out ray heart, quit the bust 
above my door." 

Longfellow started and looked up quickly. 

" Yes," said he, " but the meaning is different — 
the words in this case should be 'ne'er take your 
form from out my heart,' and I am not speaking to 
a raven, but to my dear and time-honored friend. 
Apropos of ' The Haven,' what a great poem it is, 
and how sadly realistic. How typical of the life of 
its unhappy author. I think of it many times, and 
know it by heart as who does not ? but I also think 
of the great talent lost in the sudden quenching of 
that young life, and regret the untimely death of 
Edgar Allan Poe as one must the loss of a real genius 
to the world of letters. He was a true poet." 

The kind word ever on his tongue for a brother 
writer, as usual in this case was not wanting. We 
had no more time for talking however, as the night 
was really wearing away. Saying au revoir, we 
went out, thanking again and again, our amiable host 
for the delightful evening that we had passed. 



236 The Friend of his YotUh. 

Musing once more I looked at tlie bust and the 
lines yet again came into my head. 

" And the Lamp light o'er him streaming, cast his 
shadow on the floor." There was the room ; there 
was the " cushion's velvet lining ;" there were the 
" volumes quaint and curious," of forgotten lore ; 
there was everything to recall the poem, yet Poe 
never could have had such a study as that. How 
rich the imagination must have been, that could 
paint so exact a picture. Going over it in my mind 
it seemed a prophecy of that veiy chamber, and the 
tragic scene that east a troubled dream over the life 
of another poet, who vainly wept his " Lost beloved." 
I kept sa^nng the lines over to myself, and they sad- 
dened me. 1 remembered the fate of the young 
wife, and thought how her husband must have said, 
"And my soul from out that shadow, shall be 
lifted — nevermore." 



CHAPTER XVIII. 



THE LAST BRANCH OF LILACS. 

"Through woods and mountain passes 
The winds like anthems roll; 
They are clianting solemn masses, 
Singing 'Pray for lliis poor soul, 
Pray, Pray.' 

" And the hooded clouds like friars 
Tell their beads iu drops of rain, 
And patter their doleful prayers 
But their prayers are all in vain, 
All iu vaiu." 
Midnight Mass for the Dying Year. 

" What men call death cannot break off this task which 
is never ending: consequently no period is set to my being, 
and I am eternal. I lift my head boldly to the tlireatcning 
mountain peaks, a:id to the roaring cataract, and to the 
storm-cloud, swimming in the fire-sea overhead, and say -I 
am eternal and defy your power! Break, break over me! 
and thou Earth and thou Heaven, mingle iu the wild tumult! 
And ye Elements, foam and rage, and destroy this atom of 




238 The Last Branch of Lilacs. 

dust, this body which I cull mine! My will iilmio, witli its 
fixed piir])ose, shall hover brave and triiunphant over tiio 
ruins of the uuiverso; for I have compi'uhendcd my destiny; 
and it is more durable than ye I It is eternal, and I wlio 
recognize it am eternal." 

IIypeuion, page 140. 



LOOKED over my journal to-day in a 
strangely interested fasliion. Since com- 
mencing it, I have seen the poet a great 
many times, and all that I have written 
seems tame compared with his real worth. He has 
been too ill of late to receive his accustomed visit- 
ors. I spent the twenty-eighth of last December at 
Cambridge by special invitation, and was delighted 
to lind him in looks the nei>:ative of ill-health. He 
had lost his color, but the unusual paleness did not 
make him appear unwell. I must say tliat I never 
have enjoyed a visit so much, and he was so remark- 
ably bright and vivacious. He talked with great 
animation, and questioned me on my recent visit 
abroad. 

" It is not yet decided," said he, " whether I am 
to go to Europe this year or not. I would like to 



The Last Branch of Lilacs. 239 

ever so much, but I don't know. It is a long way 
from home; still we shall see," 

He then spoke of his recent illness. 

" In my life-time," said he, " I never have suffered 
so much. I had at first (about three months ago) 
an attack of vertigo, that lasted forty-eight hours, 
and after that I was kept perfectly quiet in a dark- 
ened room. It seemed as if I never would get 
well, and even now I can only see my friends for 
a little while ; I cannot write ; I cannot read, and 
must avoid the slightest excitement. But you, chere 
Pandora, how have you been? tell me all about 
yourself." 

When I had finished he said, 

" What, writing, and about me ? Well, I must 
hear it all ; so let us begin at once." 

Then, in spite of my fears that it might tire him, 
he entered as usual with hearty interest into my 
work. The morning passed away, and when lunch- 
eon time came he said, 

" Why, I am really hungry ! That is a good 
sign." 



240 The Last Branch of Lilacs. 

As we sat down to table he added, " This is like 
old times. I feel so well to-day, and I am going to 
malce tea just as the first time when you came to see 
me. Alice," turning to his daughter, " see how well 
1 am. It does me good to have company, and I 
really think that in your anxiety you jiave made a 
prisoner of me far too long. I know that as soon as 
I commence going about and living in the old way, I 
shall feel far better." 

Ho talked a great deal, and really seemed anj^- 
thing but ill — or I should say, a convalescent. We 
went over the old study again, and he showed me a 
quantity of new things, also a splendid painting that 
was on an easel in the Martha Washington room, and 
a very large steel engraving of himself, just made. 

It was uimsually large. He opened the sheet and 
said, 

" You see all this paper — they try to make a big 
man of me but the head," pointing to it, " the head 
is rather small," and, with a little laugh, '■'■very natu- 
ral." 

How glad I was to see some of liis old humor ! 



TJie Last Branch of Lilacs. 241 

He was quite gaj and cheerful ; he seemed hke a 
school-boy home for his holiday, and spoke of his 
plans for getting well immediately. The afternoon 
wore away, and still we lingered, 

" You see," said he, turning again to his daugli- 
tc]-, " how well I am, and how it brightens me up to 
see my friends. I think I must protest against doc- 
toi-s and do only what pleases me : then I shall speed- 
ily be cured." 

At five o'clock we took our leave. The day had 
been remarkably fine, and the usually cold December 
sun was setting with some warmth. The professer 
started to accompany us to the piazza, when he was 
called back. 

" Not without your cloak papa," said Miss Long- 
fellow tenderly ; so back he went half fretfully. 

" I cannot imagine," said he irritably, '* that one 
could take cold in such a short time ; however " — 
helplessly — " I must do as they say, I suppose." 

Then he put on his mantle and came outside. 
He walked down the step, put us into the carriage, 
and with a cheerful au remir, we reiterated our 



242 The Last Branch of Lilacs. 

acHenx. I promised to come ngain very soon, and 
the last thing I saw as we went down the avenue 
was the gleam of his snowj' hair, and the supple 
grace of his cloaked form, as he leaned against the 
doorway. He kissed his hand in courtly adieu and 
watched us out of sight, with cavalier-like grace, 
raising his hat a second time at the last moment with 
a sweet and friendly smile. We were well out of 
the grounds when I remembered to have forgotten 
something; I wished to return. So we retraced our 
steps. The professor had not yet entered the draw- 
ing-room, but stood in his antechamber looking at 
some piece of statuary. 

He started on seeing us but said, " I hope you 
have omitted something that will keep you some 
time to arrange." 

" No," said I, hastily, " only a question." We 
then spoke a few words, and I turned to go. 

He shook hands with us again, and said, with a 
kindly look, " I will not say good-bye — • 

" ' Weill! Menschcn auseinander gehen 

So sagen Sie Auf Wiedcrsehn! Auf Weidersebnl" 



The Last Branch of Lilacs. 243 

Then we really went away. He did not come to the 
door, because he had not his cloak. I promised 
myself the honor of soon coming again to see him. 

" I wish," said he cheerfully, " that I were well 
enough to drive out. It seems as if it would do me 
a world of good, but I dare not try it yet awhile, 
I suppose," with a little sigh, " I must be patient." 

This was the twenty-eighth of December. A 
multitude of cares have prevented me keeping my 
promise, but I have been going over my journal 
thoroughly. With painful exactitude I call to mind 
my last visit to Caml)ridge, and the many happy 
hours that I have spent in the poet's society. When 
I go again it will be near spring-time, and perhaps as 
before, I shall carry away a branch from the old 
lilac-bush. It is nearly time for them ; this is the 
twenty-fourth of March. 

I left my writing, but an hour and a-half later 
thought of returning to it. I had barely seated my- 
self at my table when the bell rang. A few mo- 
ments later, my husband came to me with a white 
face. Looking at me sadly, he said. 



244- T^^^^ Last Branch of Lilacs. 

" Yonr visit dear, was really tlie last. Longfellow 
is dead." 

He died as he always predicted he would — just 
" in sight of another May." 



CHAPTER XIX. 



"ULTIMA THULE." 

"Lives of great men all remiud us 
We can make our lives sublime, 
And in dying leave behind us 
Footprints on the sands of time." 

A Psalm op Life. 

"Take them, O Death! and bear away 
Whatever thou canst call thine own! 
Thine image stamped upon this clay 
Doth give thee that, but that alone! 

Take them, O Grave! and let them lie 
Folded upon thy narrow shelves, 

As garments by the soul laid by, 
And precious only to ourselves. 

Take them, O great Eternity ! 

Our little life is but a gust 
Tliat bends the branches of thy tree 

And trails its blossoms in the dust." 

SUSPIRIA. 



246 Ultima TJiule. 




HE morning of March twentj-sixtli broke 
fair and smiling, and the sun shone until 
near noon. Then as if in communion 
with thousands of saddened hearts, its face 
was veiled. At three o'clock the winds rose high 
with sobbing eloquence, and stirred the old trees about 
Harvard with a desolate rustic. Appleton Chapel 
was filled with mournful faces and weeping friends, 
called together to pay the last eartlilj tribute of 
homage to the distinguished dead. While their 
prayers re-echoed in the holy sanctuary, the family of 
the poet, and the relatives and intimate friends, fol- 
owed his remains to Mount Auburn Cemetery. As 
they left the house the face of nature grew dark, and 
the storm-clouds rent their folds. A misty fall of 
snow with tenderness, as if heaven were grieving 
silently, gently shed its flakes upon the dreary earth. 
It was a last virginal tribute from the Nature he so 
adored, more appropriate to the life whose purity equal- 
ed its own whiteness, than the colored passion-flower 
whose proud blossoms decked his last earthly bier. 
On a slight elevation, in full view of the Charles 



Ultima TJmle. 247 



river " that in silence windest," is the family bnrpng 
ground. There, with the open face of nature, shall 
the sun at high noon pour her golden rays, and the 
shades of twilight steal on apace. Homage from the 
queen of night shall succeed morn's smiles, and in 
the silent watch her silver beams shall flood his last 
resting-place with glory. The stars in their azure 
firmament will nightly shine on their once earthly 
brotlier, now immortal with themselves. When the 
world is hushed to rest, the elements shall guard his 
tomb keeping a proud and eternal watch. None can 
dispute their right, none disregard their jealous 
sway. 

Looking once again on his honored grave, I saw 
in the day's fading dawn two black-robed figures ; 
with trembling hands and tearful eyes, they placed at 
his head a handful of fiowers — white calla lily, and 
branches of the violet-tinted heliotrope, whose faint 
odor and dainty bloom he loved so well. Long they 
stood there, and then their reluctant steps took them 
further away from the sad spot. The snow-flakes 
wildly struggling, tore through the air as the wind 



248 



Ultima TJiule. 



increased in violence, and with nature's agonizing 
mournings, those who loved him best, yielded their 
long, last farewell. 

" So, when a great man dies, 
For years beyond our ken, 
The light he leaves behind him lies 
Upon the paths of men." 



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That Awful Boy 

That Bridget of Ours 

Bitterwood — By M. A. Green 

Phemie Frost — Ann S. Stephens.. 

Charette — An American novel 

Fairfax — John Esten Cooke 

Hilt to Hilt. Do 

Out of the Foam. Do. ....... 

Hammer and Rapier. Do 

Warwick— By M. T. Walworth... . 
Lulu. Do. .... 

Hotspur. Do. 

Stormcliff. Do. 

Delaplaine. Do. .... 

Beverly. Do. 

Kenneth — Sallie A. Brock 

Heart Hungry — Westmoreland 

Clifford Troupe— Do 

Silcott Mill— Maria D. Des'.onde.. 
John Maribel. Do. 
Love's Vengeance 



OCT -4 1945 



